“Seems a pity,” growled the mate; and his words found an echo in Fitz Burnett’s breast.
“Yes, but it would be a greater pity for my beautiful little schooner to fall a prize to that wretched tea-kettle there; and I won’t have my lads treated as prisoners. I’d sooner we all had to take to the woods.”
“All right, sir. You’re skipper; I’m mate. It’s you to give orders, me to carry them out. But I’m beginning to think that they’ll have us before we get the wind. You see, it’s nearly calm.”
“Yes,” said the skipper, “I see; and I wonder they haven’t begun firing before.”
He walked right aft with the mate, leaving the lads alone, with Poole looking five years older, so blank and drawn was his face. But it brightened directly, as he felt the warm grip of the young middy’s hand, and heard his words.
“Oh, Poole, old chap,” Fitz half whispered, after a glance round to see if they were likely to be overheard, but only to find that every seaman was either intent upon his duty or watching the enemy in expectation of a first shell or ball from the heavy gun. “Oh, Poole, old chap,” he said again, “I am sorry—I am indeed!”
“Sorry?” said Poole quietly. “Yes; for you’ve all been very kind to me.”
“Well, I am glad to hear you say so, for I tried to be, and the dad liked you because you were such a cocky, plucky little chap. But there: it’s no use to cry over spilt milk. I suppose it isn’t spilt yet, though,” he added, with a little laugh; “but the jug will be cracked directly, and away it will all go into the sea. But I say, can you swim?”
“Oh yes, I can swim. I learnt when I was a cadet.”
“That’s right; and if we can’t get off in one of the boats you keep close alongside of me—I know the dad will like me to stick with you—and I’ll get a life-belt, or one of the buoys, and we will share it together, one to rest in it while the other swims and tows. We’ll get to shore somehow, never fear—the whole lot of us, I expect, for the lads will stand by, I am sure.”