“I know that, sir.”
“And yet you want to go?”
“Yes,” said the boy warmly. “You are going to send poor Poole, and I want to share his danger with him. I might help him.”
“I am going to send poor Poole? Yes, my boy, because I am obliged. That job has to be done, and I’d sooner trust him than any one here. I can’t spare my men, and I can’t send one of these Spanish chaps. It won’t do to have it muffed. But poor Poole, eh? You seem to have grown mighty fond of him all at once.”
“Oh no, I’m not,” said the boy haughtily; “but he has been very kind to me, and I’m not ungrateful. I might be able to help him if he gets into danger.”
“Oh,” said the skipper; “and suppose you get into danger?”
“Oh, then he’d help me, sir, of course. I’m sorry for him. He can’t help being a filibuster’s son.”
“Filibuster, eh? So I’m a filibuster, am I? Upon my word, you’re about the most cheeky young gentleman I ever ran against in my life. Well, all right. You must chance it, I suppose.”
“Yes, please,” said Fitz eagerly.
“Yes, please, eh? Well, keep your eyes well skinned, my lad. You two sharp-eyed youngsters ought to be able to take care of yourselves; but look here, I don’t want you to fight. This is our mess, not yours.”