“Ahoy, mate,” he said pleasantly, endeavoring to speak low, the effort resembling the growl of a bear.  “How do you feel—­pretty sore?”

“Ache from head to foot,” I answered, immediately feeling his friendliness.  “But no harm done.”

“I saw part of it.  The damn black brute kicked savagely enough, but at that you’re lucky; it’s the Spanish style to use a knife.  I’ve seen that cock slash a man into ribbons for nothing at all—­just to show he was bad.  Haines tells me your name is Gates, and that you are English.”

“That’s right; I shipped first out of Bristol.”

“So did I, mate—­twenty years ago though, and I never went back since.  My name is Tom Watkins.  Let’s shake; there is quite a sprinkling of us Britishers aboard, and we ought to hang together.”

He put out a big, hairy fist, and I gripped it heartily, decidedly liking the man as his eyes frankly met mine.  He appeared honest and square, a fine type of the English seaman.

“Tom Watkins, you said.  May I ask if you were out on the bow-sprit along with Haines last night?”

“Just afore the long-boat come in?  Yes, we were there.”

“Well, I was down below, hanging to the cable, and overheard you two talking together.  Somehow, Watkins, you do not seem to me to fit in exactly with this gang of pirates; you don’t look to be that sort.  How long have you been with them?”

He glanced about warily, lowering his voice until it became a hoarse whisper.

“Three years, mate, and most of that time has been hell.  I haven’t even been ashore, but once, and that was on an island.  These fellows don’t put any trust in my kind, nor give them any chance to cut and run.  Once in awhile a lad does get away, but most of them are caught; and those that are sure get their punishment.  They never try it again.  I’ve seen them staked out on the sand, and left to die; that ain’t no nice thing to remember.”

“But how did you come into it?” “Like most of the rest.  I was second mate of the Ranger, a Glasgow brig.  We loaded with sugar at Martinique, for London.  These fellows overhauled us at daybreak about a hundred miles off the east end of Cuba.  They had a swift schooner, and five guns, one a Long Tom.  All we had to fight them with was about fifteen men, and two brass carronades.  Our skipper was Scotch, and he put up some fight, but it wasn’t any use.  There was only three of us left alive when the pirates came aboard.  One of these died two days later, and another was washed overboard and drowned down in the Gulf.  I am all that is left of the Ranger.”

“You saved your life by taking on?”

“Sanchez had the two of us, who were able to stand, back in his cabin.  He put it to us straight.  He said it was up to us whether we signed up, or walked the plank; and he didn’t appear to care a damn which we chose.  The cold-blooded devil meant it too, for he was raging mad at getting only five hundred pounds off the brig.  Well, Jack and I looked at each other—­and then we signed.”