Chapter Forty Seven.
’Cause why.
“Now we know,” said Poole joyously, as they left the cabin and went forward to their old place to discuss their plans: “what we have got to do is to cut and run. Come on; let’s go and sit on the bowsprit again. It will soon be dinner-time. I wonder what the Camel has got?”
“Oh, don’t talk about eating now,” cried Fitz, as they reached the big spar, upon which he scrambled out, to sit swinging his legs, and closely followed by Poole. “What’s the first thing?”
“Who’s to man the gig,” said Poole; “and I’ve got to pick the crew.”
“I should like to pick one,” cried Fitz.
“All right, go on; only don’t choose the Camel, nor Bob Jackson.”
“No, no; neither of them,” cried Fitz. “I say, we ought to have old Butters.”
“One,” said Poole sharply. “Now it’s my turn; Chips.”
“Yes, I should like to have him,” cried the middy. “But I don’t know,” he continued seriously. “He’s a splendid fellow, and so handy; but he might want to turn it all into a lark.”