“There, sir,” whispered the man, “hark at you! Call yourself a boy! why you couldn’t ha’ spoken better if you’d been a hold man of a ’undered. You made me want to give you a shout, only I had to keep quiet, and let the Spaniels think I’m doing it all to rights. I don’t mind about our lads. They all know me, and what I can do and what I can’t. I don’t want to try anything and chuck dust in their eyes—not me; but I do want to show off a bit and let these Spanish Mullotter chaps see what an Englishman can do, for the sake of the old country and the British flag.”
“Then let’s go below, Chips,” said Fitz, “and see what the pumping has done.”
Poole, who had been aft with the mate during this conversation, rejoined them now, and together they went below to sound the well.
“Good luck to us, gentlemen,” said the carpenter, rubbing his hands.
“Good luck,” cried Poole eagerly. “You don’t mean to say she’s making less water?”
“Nay, sir, but I do say that the engine’s lowering it. There’s a foot less in her now than when we began pumping, and that means we win.”
A few hours later, after the donkey-engine had kept on its steady pumping, Chips made another inspection, and came up to where Fitz and Poole were together, pulling a very long face.
“Why, what’s the matter, Chips?” cried Fitz anxiously. “You don’t mean to say that anything is wrong?”
“Horribly, gentlemen,” cried the man. “It’s always my luck! Chucking away my chances! Why, she’s as good as new!”
“Well, what more do you want? Isn’t that good enough for you?”