"Then there's Blazey," continued Mr. Leverett, who seldom opened his mouth save to utter a grievance. "Call him an Agent! One of the carved stone turrets we are going ter fix on the church tower would be a better agent than him. I wish I had the handling of the skunk."
"Lordy! Have done with your growling," said Knapps. "What's the use of it? You only drive other hot-heads into the enemy's ships. I miss faces every day as it is."
"Many are true enough," replied young Burnham. "There's Mercer and Troubridge and our messmate, Caleb Carberry. You miss them because they are all sick in hospital."
"Troubridge is dead," said Cecil Stark shortly; "and Matthew Mercer is dying. I saw the doctor this morning. He said 'twas all over with him. He's unconscious."
Leverett lifted his ribs in a deep sigh.
"They are out of it. I most envy 'em. There's no escape from this cussed bowery except by way of the 'orspital."
None spoke; then upon their gloomy silence a black man burst, in the very extremity of excitement. He was a big, full-blooded negro—a splendid specimen of vigour, manhood and health. Now he waved his arms and rolled his great brown eyes and advanced upon them with a clumsy saltation.
"Waal, now, look at that black imp!" cried Knapps. "Come here, Sam Cuffee! What's happened to you? Has anybody left you a fortune, or a pair of wings?"
"Better dan dat, Jimmy Knapps! Good tings for all ob us, please de Lord. Him coming, Sars. Ha, ha, ha! Him coming!"
"Who's coming?" asked Leverett. "The Lord? Don't you think it, Sam. There's no God nowadays ter keep his weather eye lifting on the likes of us."