“Humph!” grunted Roberts sulkily, and his fingers stole up to pat the scorched portions of his face.
“Case of pot and kettle, eh, Dick?” said Murray, laughing, then pulling his face straight again as he winced with pain. “Oh, I say, don’t make me grin at you again. It’s just as if my skin was ready to crack all over. There, poor old chap, I’m sorry for you if you feel as bad as I do. But you began it.”
“Beg pardon, then,” grumbled Roberts.
“Granted. But I say, why doesn’t Anderson hurry us all on board?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do,” cried the midshipman excitedly. “The beggars—they must have quite escaped the fire! They’re gathering together over yonder, hundreds of them, with spears. I believe they’re going to make a rush. Fancy, after destroying the hornets’ nest!”
“Then we shall have to kill the hornets,” said Murray; and the two lads were among the first to answer to the boatswain’s whistle, which now chirruped out loudly.
“Here we are, Mr Murray, sir,” said Tom May, as the midshipman hurried up to his little party. “This is us, sir—your lot.”
“Well, I know that,” said the lad petulantly, as he winced with pain.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man. “Thought you might take us for the niggers, seeing what colour we are and how our clothes are tumbling off.”
“Yes, we’re black enough, Tom, but I hope you don’t feel as I do,” said his leader.