“Oh, murder, look at that!” yelled Wriggs, excitedly, as he climbed up and looked over at the retreating foe.
“Tommy, old lad, see here. The beggars! Arter my troubles too, all the night: they’ve carried off my ladder, after all.”
The moon was now high above the mist, and bathed the deck with the soft light, veining it at the same time with the black shadows of stay, spar, yard, and running rigging.
“Don’t fire, lads,” cried Mr Rimmer. “We mustn’t waste a shot. Wait till they come on again. Now, gentlemen, thank God you’re all back safe again. Eh? Not safe? Don’t say anyone’s hurt.”
“Yes, Lane’s hurt, and Panton.”
“So’s Billy Wriggs, sir,” said Smith.
“Course I am, mate, so would you be if you’d slipped your foot between the ratlines of an ugly old ladder, and broke your ankle.”
“Why, I did, Billy, right up to the crutch, and snapped my thigh-bone in half,” growled Smith.
“I’ll see to you as soon as I can. Here, two of you carry Mr Lane down into the cabin.”
“No, Mr Panton first,” said Oliver. “He’s worst.”