“Is father below there?” cried Poole huskily. “Yes; just left him,” grunted the mate, as he stared hard at the excited countenances of the two lads. “Anything the matter?”
“Yes. Quick!” cried Poole. “Come on down below.” The skipper looked up from the log he was writing as his son flung open the cabin-door, paused for the others to enter, and then shut it after them with a bang which made the skipper frown.
“Here, what’s this, sir?” he said sternly, as he glanced from one to the other. “Oh, I see; you two boys have been quarrelling, and want to fight. Well, wait a little, and you’ll have enough of that. Now, Mr Burnett, speak out. What is it? Have you and my son been having words?”
“Yes, father,” half shouted Poole, interposing—“such words as will make you stare. Tell him, Burnett, all that you have said.”
The skipper and the mate listened in silence, while Poole watched the play of emotion their faces displayed, before the skipper spoke.
“Splendid, my lad!” he cried. “But it sounds too good to be true. You say you understand these guns?”
“Yes, sir; I have often stood by to watch the drill, and seen blank cartridge fired again and again.”
“But the breech-block? Could it be lifted out?”
“It could aboard the Tonans, sir, and I should say that this would be about the same.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the skipper. “But it could only be done by one who understands the working of the piece, and we should be all worse than children over such a job.”