“Lor, man! a broken arm, or a leg or two knocked off, don’t make much difference to any of our gang.”
“Nor a broken head either, I should think,” Tim said to himself, doubtingly.
“We’ve got a famous cook, a bit of a tailor, a good doctor, a gunsmith, and other chaps in our band, so we manage to make a pleasant life of it.”
“I shouldn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you might fall foul of such a man as Lieut. Garnet and his crew some day; and if you did——”
“And if we did, what then? We should have to fight hard, that’s all.”
“That’s all, eh?” thought Tim; “but that’s a little more than I should care about.”
“Why, a fight once in a while is the life and soul of a bold smuggler. You have no notion how it gives one an appetite.”
“I should think that a ten-pound cannon shot in one’s stomach would be a trifle more than even a smuggler could digest,” said Tim; “but, as you very wisely remarked once before, there’s no telling when one gets used to it.”