“Ay, ay: they began it,” came in chorus.
“And if it happens that they are not smugglers, and there’s trouble about it, you know what to say.”
Archy heard all this, and it seemed to him that the party were about to pass him, when a voice he well knew growled out,—
“Hit me an awful whack with a stick.”
“Ay, I got one too, my lad; and I didn’t like to use my cutlash.”
“Wish we’d took a prisoner, or knocked one or two down. Why, here is one.”
There was a buzz of voices, and Archy felt himself hoisted up.
“Can you stand? Not wounded, are you? Who cut him down?”
“Well, I’m ’fraid it was me,” said one of the familiar voices. “Why, he is a prisoner ready made.”
“What? Here, cut him loose, lads. Hullo, my lad, who are you?”