As it happened, Long Jim was throwing himself forward in a sort of dive beneath the hood of the scuttle, just as I thrust my body against the opening. His shoulder caught me in the stomach, and my head and feet flew out and we grabbed each other and went tumbling down the old wooden companion together and rolled into the black forecastle.
"Blime me, I thought ye was down afore me, Bucky," gasped Long Jim, recovering himself and stumbling over me. I rolled to one side and found myself under a bunk.
"I was down," said Buckrow. "What ye trying to do—make a Punch and Judy show of yerself? Ye come down like a lubberly farmer, and then blame it on me. What made ye tumble like that?"
"I thought ye was down."
"I was down—well clear of ye and waiting for ye."
"Then how come ye under my bleedin' feet. Mind yer eye now, or the two of 'em'll be down on us. That mate is a bad un, I tell ye, Bucky—bad as the nigger in the Southern Cross. No end of trouble with him, if ye remember as I do."
"Aw, stow the gab," whispered Buckrow, "We're working now. Mind what yer about. I've got another gun from Thirkle."
"Thirkle here?" asked Long Jim. "W'ere be ye, Thirkle?"
"Standing by," was the whispered reply. "Shoot if they come down, but keep still a minute. Fire up before they have a chance to drop on you, and stand clear, with the gun around the bulkhead at that side, while I let go at them from this side."
"Below thar!" called Harris down the scuttle. "All hands on deck and look lively, or I'll make a tailor's dummy of the last up."