quickly, all excitement at the noise
going on in the hold.

"Why, they're quarrelling and getting up a fight," cried Mark, as the
noise increased; and there was evidently a struggle, while blows were
being struck and savage cries arose.

"Go down and stop it," cried Mark. "Stupid idiots! Why can't they be
still?"

Soup ran to the hold hatch and lowered himself rapidly down, just as the
noise below culminated in shrieks and yells, while the fighting was
rapidly growing desperate.

"We must go down and stop it," said Mark.

"Shall I pipe all hands on deck, sir?" cried Tom.

"No, no; we can quiet them. Get a light. They'll settle down as soon
as they see me."

Tom Fillot fetched a lantern, and two men who had heard the fierce
yelling came up to see just as Mark reached the ladder, and was about to
descend, when, to his astonishment, Soup came rushing up, and fell
heavily upon the deck.

"Why, Soup, my lad, have they attacked you?" cried Mark, taking the
lantern to hold over the prostrate black.

"Hi! Look-out, sir!" roared Tom Fillot, blowing a whistle with all his
might, as he drew his cutlass, and made a cut at a dark shadow which
leaped on deck; and before Mark could grasp what it all meant, other
shadowy figures rushed up from below, made a desperate charge, and a
moment later he, Tom Fillot, and Dick Bannock, with Stepney, were driven
down into the cabin, while the body of the big black was hurled upon
them, and the hatchway doors banged to.

For a few moments Mark could neither get his breath nor speak. Then
wriggling himself out from beneath poor Soup, he cried angrily,--

"The treacherous brutes! This is setting blacks free, so that they may
turn against us. Why, they've half killed him."

"And us, too, sir," groaned Tom Fillot. "I always thought they'd be too
many for us."

"What do you mean?" cried Mark.

"Why, sir, all that caterwauling and stamping was to hide what they were
about."

"Who were about?" cried Mark.

"Them Yankees, sir. They've done us this time. I thought they would."

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

IN DESPERATION.

"In the name of common sense, Tom Fillot, what are you talking about?"
cried Mark, angrily.

"The Yanks, sir."

"But what have they to do with it? Oh, my arm! It's nearly dragged out
of the socket. Here, speak out. What do you mean?"

"Only this, sir: they were too cunning for us. They cheated us with
that row they made."

"Look here," crie