Poole’s eyes were directed searchingly at the middy, who met them without a wink.
“As I understand,” continued the captain, “it would be done by one who crept aboard in the dark, unscrewed the gun, took out the block, and carried it to the side. I repeat, it could only be done by one who understands the task. Who could do this?”
“I could, sir,” said Fitz quietly.
“And you would?”
“If I were strong enough. But I am sure that I could do it if Poole would help.”
“Then if it’s possible to do, father,” said the lad quietly, “the job is done.”
“But look here,” interposed the mate, in his gruff way; “what about Don Ramon? What will he say? He wouldn’t have that great breech-loader spoiled for the world.”
“How would it be spoiled?” cried Fitz sharply.
“Aren’t you going to disable it by chucking the breech-block over the side?”
“Pooh!” cried Fitz contemptuously. “These parts are all numbered, and you can send over to England and get as many new ones as you like.”