“That’s your sort!” he cried. “Now, lads, two on you hoist up.”
The men had hold of the freshly-cut end of the stout joist in an instant, raised it up, its length acting as a powerful lever, and it was wrenched out of its place, to be used beneath its fellows so dexterously that in a short time there was no longer any floor to the principal room of the hacienda, the joists being piled up on one side, and those who were in it stood now a couple of feet lower with the window-sills just on a level with their chests.
“Bravo! Splendid!” cried Fitz excitedly. “Why, that gives us a capital breastwork—bulwark, I mean—to fire over.”
“Yes,” cried Poole, “and plenty of stuff, Chips, for you to barricade the doors.”
“Barricade the doors, sir? You mean stop ’em up, I suppose. But how? Arn’t got a big cross-cut saw in your pocket, have you?”
“Go on, old chap, and don’t chatter so,” cried Poole. “Break them in half.”
“Nice tradesman-like job that’ll make, sir! It is all very fine to talk. Here, stand aside, some on you. I never was in a hurry but some thick-headed foremast-man was sure to get in the way. Let’s see; where’s my rule? Yah! No rule, no pencil, no square. Lay that there first one down, mates. What are they? About twelve foot. Might make three out of each of them.”
One of the joists was laid on the earth close to a collection of dry leaves.
“Looks like an old rat’s nest,” said Fitz. “Like enough, sir, only we haven’t no time to hunt ’em. Sure to be lots in a place like this.”
“Yes, I can smell them,” said Poole—“that nasty musky odour they have!”