“Not he,” cried Poole. “He likes his bit of fun sometimes, but for a good man and true to have at my back in a job like this, he’s the pick of the whole crew.”
“Chips it is, then,” said Fitz. “That’s two.”
“Dick Boulter, then.”
“Three!” cried Fitz.
“Harry Smith.”
“Four,” said Fitz.
“Four, four, four, four,” said Poole thoughtfully. “Who shall we have for number five? Here, we’ll have the Camel, after all.”
“Oh,” cried Fitz; “there’ll be nothing to cook.”
“Yes, there will; the big gun and the propeller. He’s cook, of course, but he’s nearly as good a seaman as there is on board the schooner, and he’ll row all right and never utter a word. There, we’ve got a splendid boat’s crew, and I vote we go and tell father what we’ve done.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Fitz. “It’ll make him think that we hadn’t confidence in ourselves. Unless he asks us, I wouldn’t say a word.”