Responsibility, the searcher out of souls, had exhilarated and sobered the man. He was graver yet gayer, inspiring and inspired.
"Duck up aloft!" came a sudden roar from beneath.
The Parson smote Kit a blow on the chest that sent him staggering back against the wall.
A bullet whistled in at one window and out at the other.
The Parson crawled across to Knapp, lying on his face, and dealt him a tremendous buffet.
"Dog!" he thundered. "Why don't you shout?"
The little man's body leapt to the blow, but he made no answer.
"Go below!" ordered the Parson savagely. "What's the good of you? I set you there to warn us and all you can do is to grovel on your stomach and snivel."
The little Cockney rose without a word and crept away, his tail between his legs. Kit saw his face. One eye was black; and his face was so woebegone that but for the misery in it Kit would have smiled.
"Their shooting is exquisite," said the Parson with professional delight. "You can't show a finger…. They've nearly had Blob already —ain't they, Blob?"