"Here's a pickle, truly!" growled Tom Dawson. "I wonder what they intend to do with us?"
"Mebbe they'll eat us, hang 'em!" answered Watt Brown.
"No, they are no longer cannibals," put in Vincent. "But you can make up your minds that we won't sleep on a bed of roses to-night."
"They have no right to make us prisoners," went on the first mate. "I wonder if there is any Spanish officer near here. I know there is one at Iba."
"We could find out if only some of them understood English," said I. "Let me see. The Spanish name for a Spaniard is Un Español. I'll try them on that."
Walking up to the chief, I repeated the words, "Un Español," several times. At this he gave a sickly grin, then shook his head decidedly.
"If he knows any Spaniard in authority here he is not going to take us to him," was Tom Dawson's comment. "My private opinion is that they know perfectly well that this ship belongs to us, but they mean to keep the prize for themselves, and rather than have any trouble with the Spanish authorities about her, they'll put us all out of the way."
"That's not unlikely," added Watt Brown. "You must remember that all of the people in
