“That’s done it!” shouted Tom Jecks, giving the stock of his rifle a heavy slap.
“You’ve hit him?” cried Mr Brooke.
“Yes, sir; I caught him as he stood by watching the cannon fired.”
“Yes, that’s right,” cried Mr Brooke, shading his eyes and gazing hard at the scene on the high poop, where, in the last rays of the setting sun, we could see men holding up their captain, who was distinctive from his gay attire and lacquered hat, which now hung forward as the scoundrel’s head drooped upon his breast.
“Cease firing!” said Mr Brooke, for we were a hundred yards away now, and rapidly increasing the distance. “We can do no more good. Thank you, Jecks. Now then, who is hurt?”
There was no reply.
“What, no one?” cried Mr Brooke.
“Yes, sir: why don’t you speak out, Tom Jecks? You got it, didn’t you?”
“Well, so did you; but I arn’t going to growl.”
“More arn’t I, messmate. It’s nothing much, sir.”