“You are right,” said Poole; “right as right. Now then, what’s next? I know: we’ll go and make the lads get up the Manilla rope and lay it down again in rings as close as they’ll go.”
“On the deck here?” said Fitz.
“No, no; right along the bottom of the gig. And we must have her lowered down first with two men in her, ready to coil the cable as the others pass it down. Now then, let’s get inboard again and find old Butters.”
“But he’ll be wanting to know what we want with that rope.”
“Sure to,” said Poole; “but he’ll have to wait. Oh, here he comes. Here, bosun!” he cried. “I want you to get up that new Manilla cable, lower down the gig, and coil it in the bottom so that it will take up as little room as possible, and not be in the men’s way.”
“What men’s way?” said the boatswain. “Chips, Harry Smith, the Camel, and Dick Boulter,” said Poole.
“Ho!” grunted the boatswain, and he took off his cap and began to scratch his head, staring at both in turn. “Whose orders?” he grunted, at last. “I just seen Mr Burgess, and he never said a word.”
“The skipper’s orders,” cried Poole.
“Ho!” said the boatswain again. “Well, that’s good enough for me,” and he stood staring at them.
“Well, get the men together and see about the rope,” cried Poole.