“Oh, don’t you make no mistake about that, sir,” said Smith, shaking his head. “I’m only a sailor, and not a soger, and not brave at all.”
“Speak the truth, Tommy,” said Wriggs, in a tone of protest.
“Well, that is the truth, Billy; I ar’n’t what you call a brave chap, and I can’t fight a bit till some one hurts me, and then I s’pose I do let go, ’cause you see I feel nasty and sawage like, but that ar’n’t being brave.”
“Don’t you believe him, gents,” growled Wriggs; “he is a brave chap when his monkey’s up. You can’t hold him then.”
“Yah, don’t talk stuff, my lad,” said Smith, bashfully. “How can a chap be brave as has got two legs as runs away with him as soon as he’s scared?”
“Hush!” whispered Drew, “we are talking too loudly. Look here, Lane, and you, Panton: we had better wait for the darkness, and then take our chance of making a dash for the brig.”
“And spend all these weary hours in this heat without water. It would be horrible.”
“Lie down, and try and pass the time in sleep, while we watch.”
“She’s at it again, sir,” whispered Wriggs, with bated breath, as he made a clutch at his messmate and held on tightly, for a curious heaving sensation, as of a wave passing beneath them, was felt, followed by a deep booming roar from northward.
“Ay,” whispered Smith, “and if she’d suck one o’ them big waves ashore and make a clean sweep o’ these charcoal chaps, she’d be doing some good.”