Joe did not think of this, for he, who had never been shot at in all his previous life, had been under fire twice in the last twenty-four hours.  Once more or less could n’t amount to much.  So he pulled steadily away, while French Pete raved like a wild man, threatening him with all manner of punishments once he laid hands upon him again.  To complicate matters, ’Frisco Kid waxed mutinous.

“Just you shoot him, and I ’ll see you hung for it—­see if I don’t,” he threatened.  “You ’d better let him go.  He ’s a good boy and all right, and not raised for the dirty life you and I are leading.”

“You too, eh!” the Frenchman shrieked, beside himself with rage.  “Den I fix you, you rat!”

He made a rush for the boy, but ’Frisco Kid led him a lively chase from cockpit to bowsprit and back again.  A sharp capful of wind arriving just then, French Pete abandoned the one chase for the other.  Springing to the tiller and slacking away on the main-sheet,—­for the wind favored,—­he headed the sloop down upon Joe.  The latter made one tremendous spurt, then gave up in despair and hauled in his oars.  French Pete let go the main-sheet, lost steerageway as he rounded up alongside the motionless skiff, and dragged Joe out.

“Keep mum,” ’Frisco Kid whispered to him while the irate Frenchman was busy fastening the painter.  “Don’t talk back.  Let him say all he wants to, and keep quiet.  It ’ll be better for you.”

But Joe’s Anglo-Saxon blood was up, and he did not heed.

“Look here, Mr. French Pete, or whatever your name is,” he commenced; “I give you to understand that I want to quit, and that I ’m going to quit.  So you ’d better put me ashore at once.  If you don’t I ’ll put you in prison, or my name ’s not Joe Bronson.”

’Frisco Kid waited the outcome fearfully.  French Pete was aghast.  He was being defied aboard his own vessel—­and by a boy!  Never had such a thing been heard of.  He knew he was committing an unlawful act in detaining him, but at the same time he was afraid to let him go with the information he had gathered concerning the sloop and its occupation.  The boy had spoken the unpleasant truth when he said he could send him to prison.  The only thing for him to do was to bully him.

“You will, eh?” His shrill voice rose wrathfully.  “Den you come too.  You row ze boat last-a night—­answer me dat!  You steal ze iron—­answer me dat!  You run away—­answer me dat!  And den you say you put me in jail?  Bah!”

“But I did n’t know,” Joe protested.

“Ha, ha!  Dat is funny.  You tell dat to ze judge; mebbe him laugh, eh?”

“I say I did n’t,” he reiterated manfully.  “I did n’t know I ’d shipped along with a lot of thieves.”

’Frisco Kid winced at this epithet, and had Joe been looking at him he would have seen a red flush mount to his face.

“And now that I do know,” he continued, “I wish to be put ashore.  I don’t know anything about the law, but I do know something of right and wrong; and I ’m willing to take my chance with any judge for whatever wrong I have done—­with all the judges in the United States, for that matter.  And that ’s more than you can say, Mr. Pete.”