“Then let’s get it done,” said Bart, stolidly; and he drew off the lid of the rough case. “Come, lad, let’s lift the poor fellow quickly into his coffin and act like men.”
“But didn’t ye fale him move, Bart, lad?” whispered Dinny.
“No. What foolery!” growled Bart. “Fancy!”
“Divil a bit, sor! I just touched him,” whispered Dinny; “and he worked his toes about, and thin give quite a kick.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Bart.
“Bedad, but he did!” whispered Dinny. “Wait a minute. The poor boy don’t like it, perhaps. If we only had Father McFadden here!”
“What are you going to do?”
“Shpake to him,” said Dinny, trembling; “and the blessed saints stand bechuckst me and harm!” he muttered, fervently. “Abel, me lad—captin, don’t ye want to go?”
There was a dead silence.
“Shpake to us, me lad, and say no if you don’t; and we’ll respect your wishes.”