"Any tomfoolery and you will go off," replied the Parson sternly—"out of this world into the next—pop! as you say yourself. You've only one chance against the finest marksmen in the world, and that's to show em a clean pair of heels. If you don't, you've fought your last fight, my lad! Ginger Jake's cock of the South."
The last words went home. The little rifleman became very grave. He swung round to Piper in his swift bird-like way.
"Mr. Piper, pop off a prayer for us."
The common-sense saint lifted his head.
"God elp and strengthen your legs, Nipper Knapp," he prayed.
"That's the point, O Lord!—his legs!" punctuated the Parson.
"Sometimes," continued the old foretop-man solemnly, "I have wondered why the Lard saw good to take my legs to Himsalf. Rack'n I knaw now." He reached out a huge hand, gripped the little rifleman and pulled him closer. "There's nawthin cut to waste in this world," he whispered huskily. "And it's my belieft He's been savin of em up this ten year past agin this day—to put the strength of em into your'n, Jack Knapp. May you make good use o both pairs—your own o the flesh, and mine o the sperrit!—that's my best prayer for you."
The little rifleman, as simple as the old sailor, was profoundly touched.
"I'll do me best, Mr. Piper, struth I will!" he sniffed. "Never do to mess it a'ter all His trouble."
"Give us your hand on it!" said the old man. "And you too, sir, if so be a common sailor might make so bold."