The boy's fiery insults left the other cold.
"You're young, my boy, offensively young," he said. "A bad fault, but one you may hope to grow out of. One thing I'm sure of. You do your friend a great injustice. He won't leave that despatch-bag in our hands till he's forced to at the point of the steel."
"But what can we do?" blazed the boy—"do, do, do! There's Nelson!" with flashing forefinger. "Here are we. He won't come to us. We must get to him. There's only one way—the lugger. It may be a poor chance, still if it's the only one! O, sir, sir! surely it's better to die attempting something, than stand and rot to death here!"
The words poured forth in a white-hot torrent, shaking him.
Anybody in the world but the practical Englishman would have been moved.
He only grunted.
"I wish I knew what was going on behind that shingle-bank," he grumbled, half to himself.
The boy's soul quenched, only to flame forth again.
"I'll be your eyes, sir!"
The Parson shook a dubious head.