“First you want to drown yoreself swimming, an' now you want to roast the pair of us to death,” Hopalong retorted, eyeing the rear wall of the room. “Wonder what's on the other side of that partition?”
Johnny looked. “Why, water; an' lots of it, too.”
“Naw; the water is on the other sides.”
“Then how do I know?—sh! I hear somebody coming on the roof.”
“Tumble back in yore bunk—quick!” Hopalong hurriedly whispered. “Be asleep—if he comes down here it'll be our deal.”
The steps overhead stopped at the companionway and a shadow appeared across the small patch of sunlight on the floor of the forecastle. “Tumble up here, you blasted loafers!” roared a deep voice.
No reply came from the forecastle—the silence was unbroken.
“If I have to come down there I'll—” the first mate made promises in no uncertain tones and in very impolite language. He listened for a moment, and having very good ears and hearing nothing, made more promises and came down the ladder quickly and nimbly.
“I'll bring you to,” he muttered, reaching a brawny hand for Hopalong's nose, and missing. But he made contact with his own face, which stopped a short-arm blow from the owner of the aforesaid nose, a jolt full of enthusiasm and purpose. Beautiful and dazzling flashes of fire filled the air and just then something landed behind his ear and prolonged the pyrotechnic display. When the skyrockets went up he lost interest in the proceedings and dropped to the floor like a bag of meal.
Hopalong cut another piece from the rope in his hand and watched his companion's busy fingers. “Tie him good, Johnny; he's the only ace we've drawn in this game so far, an' we mustn't lose him.”