“Yes, by his men’s cowardice.”
“Nay; you’re cross, my lad,” said Bart, unconsciously raising one arm and drawing back the sleeve to readjust a bandage. “Month to-night and the deck was running into the scuppers with blood, half the lads was killed, and t’other half all got a wound. We was obliged to sheer off.”
“Yes, you coward! you left your captain to his fate.”
“But I saved the captain’s—brother,” said Bart, slowly, “or he’d have been shut up in prison along with poor Abel now.”
“Better so,” said the other, fiercely; “and then there’d be an end of a persecuted life.”
“Better as it is,” said Bart, quietly; “but I did save you.”
“Bart, old lad, don’t take any notice of what I say,” whispered Jack.
“I don’t, lad, when you’re put out. I never do.”
“Don’t speak to me like that. It maddens me more.”
“No, it don’t, lad. It’s only me speaking, and you may hammer me with words all night if it does you good. I don’t mind, I’m only Bart.”