“I don’t much like the idea of that,” said Jack.
“And if we don’t have such bad luck, still we shall be interrogated as to who we are, and how we were adrift by ourselves.”
“There will be a difficulty about that again—we must swear that it is a party of pleasure, and that we are gentlemen yachting.”
“Without a crew or provisions—yachts don’t sail with a clean-swept hold, or gentlemen without a spare shirt—we have nothing but two gallons of water and two pairs of pistols.”
“I have it,” said Jack—“we are two young gentlemen in our own boat who went out to Gozo with pistols to shoot sea-mews, were caught in a gale, and blown down to Sicily—that will excite interest.”
“That’s the best idea yet, as it will account for our having nothing in the boat. Well then, at all events, we will get rid of the bodies; but suppose they are not dead—we cannot throw them overboard alive—that will be murder.”
“Very true,” replied Jack; “then we must shoot them first, and toss them overboard afterwards.”
“Upon my soul, Easy, you are an odd fellow: however, go and examine the men, and we’ll decide that point by-and-bye—you had better keep your pistol ready cocked for they may be shamming.”
“Devil a bit of sham here, anyhow,” replied Jack, pulling at the body of the padrone, “and as for this fellow you shot, you might put your fist into his chest. Now for the third,” continued Jack, stepping over the strengthening piece—“he’s all among the baskets. I say, my cock, are you dead?” and Jack enforced his question with a kick in the ribs. The man groaned. “That’s unlucky, Gascoigne, but, however, I’ll soon settle him,” said Jack, pointing his pistol.
“Stop, Jack,” cried Gascoigne, “it really will be murder.”