“Don’t you have satisfaction when you fire at Mr Easy,” replied the gunner; “what more would you have?”
“I purtest against Mr Biggs firing at me.”
“So you would have a shot without receiving one,” cried Gascoigne: “the fact is, that this fellow’s a confounded coward, and ought to be kicked into the cooperage again.”
At this affront Mr Easthupp rallied, and accepted the pistol offered by the gunner.
“You ear those words, Mr Biggs; pretty language to use to a gentleman. You shall ear from me, sir, as soon as the ship is paid off. I purtest no longer, Mr Tallboys; death before dishonour. I’m a gentleman, damme!”
At all events, the swell was not a very courageous gentleman, for he trembled most exceedingly as he pointed his pistol.
The gunner gave the word, as if he were exercising the great guns on board ship.
“Cock your locks!”—“Take good aim at the object!”—“Fire!”—“Stop your vents!”
The only one of the combatants who appeared to comply with the latter supplementary order was Mr Easthupp, who clapped his hand to his trousers behind, gave a loud yell, and then dropped down: the bullet having passed clean through his seat of honour, from his having presented his broadside as a target to the boatswain as he faced towards our hero. Jack’s shot had also taken effect, having passed through both the boatswain’s cheeks, without further mischief than extracting two of his best upper double teeth, and forcing through the hole of the farther cheek the boatswain’s own quid of tobacco. As for Mr Easthupp’s ball, as he was very unsettled, and shut his eyes before he fired, it had gone the Lord knows where.
The purser’s steward lay on the ground and screamed—the boatswain spit his double teeth and two or three mouthfuls of blood out, and then threw down his pistols in a rage.