“A think so, indeed,” said another voice.
Daniel went on:
“We was two hunder, if we was a man; an t’ gang has niver numbered above twelve.”
“But they was armed. A seen t’ glitter on their cutlasses,” spoke out a fresh voice.
“What then!” replied he who had latest come, and who stood at the mouth of the entry. “A had my whaling-knife wi’ me i’ my pea-jacket as my missus threw at me, and a’d ha’ ripped ’em up as soon as winking, if a could ha’ thought what was best to do wi’ that ⸺ bell making such a din right above us. A man can but die onest, and we was ready to go int’ t’ fire for t’ save folks’ lives, and yet we’d none on us t’ wit to see as we might ha’ saved yon poor chaps as screeched out for help.”
“They’ll ha’ getten ’em to t’ Randyvow by now,” said someone.
“They cannot tak’ ’em aboard till morning; t’ tide won’t serve,” said the last speaker but one.
Daniel Robson spoke out the thought that was surging up into the brain of everyone there.
“There’s a chance for us a’. How many be we?” By dint of touching each other the numbers were counted. Seven. “Seven. But if us seven turns out and rouses t’ town, there’ll be many a score ready to gang t’ t’ Mariners’ Arms, and it’ll be easy work reskying them chaps as is pressed. Us seven, each man-jack on us, go and seek up his friends, and get him as well as he can to t’ church steps; then, mebbe, there’ll be some there as’ll not be so soft as we was, letting them poor chaps be carried off from under our noses, just because our ears was busy listening to yon confounded bell, whose clip-clapping tongue a’ll tear out afore this week is out.”