The frantic shout was checked by another blow from the angry ruffian's
fist, and Hugh measured his length upon the sand.

"Shut up, will ye?" snarled the man, thrusting a bunch of sharp-edged
grass into Hugh's mouth. "Look here, Branks," he added, "we can't
let this kid blow the gaff on us to Lem Vinton. Why, the cap'n
wouldn't wait ten minutes before he'd sail out to find that blamed
cutter ag'in; and then we'd have him and the _Petrel_ on our trail."

"Harry, you're right---dead right. The boy has got to come with
us, until-----"

"Sure! Here, lend a hand. Tie his arms."

With their leather belts they bound the lad's hands securely, despite
his struggles. Once, by a manful effort, he managed to break away
and run forward a few yards. But they were after him instantly,
before he could get the gag out of his mouth. In the tussle that
followed, he kicked and writhed so vigorously that the cross-eyed
captor howled with pain. Then, beside himself with rage, he felled
Hugh by a blow on the head.

Myriads of stars reeled in the sunlight before Hugh's eyes, then the
light of day changed to pitch darkness, and Hugh sank down on the
sand---a limp heap, unconscious.




CHAPTER V