"Better get forrard, boys," said the bosun soberly. "It's too late to do anything now, an' you ain't foolish enough to go buckin' against guns, are ye? We're short-enough handed as it is, without any more lame ducks."
The bosun's sensible words had their effect, and so did the old man's glittering nickel-plated six-shooters.
There was a murmur of consultation amongst the men, and two or three of the cowards began to sneak to the rear of the group.
"Wot er we goin' ter do?" asked the cockney. "St'y w'ere we are an' get plugged, rush 'im, or retryte. I ain't afryde of 'im an' I'm feelin' dyngerous."
"He's got the drop on us, pard. It ain't no manner o' use that I ever see'd, takin' liberties wi' six-shooters," declared old Ben gloomily.
"I'm gyme ter sock it to 'im, any'ow. I'll stand in ter jump 'im. Wot you sye, fellers?"
The cockney was as pugnacious as a cock-sparrow, and far from lacking in courage.
"Bedad, an' I'm with ye!" sang out Pat.
"It vas too lade, anyway; der ole man vas too schmard vor us," grunted Muller heavily.
"Dat am what I done told you," put in Sam.