“Surely not, Tom,” said Murray, with a shudder, as he felt attacked by a sense of horrible insecurity.
“All right, sir. Say so if you like; I’m willing. But I’d keep on stamping as long as we’re here in this lovely place. I do hope, though, as they arn’t making a meal of poor old Titely; he do desarve better luck after being speared as he was over yonder across the herring pond.”
“Let’s hail him again.”
“All right, sir. I’ve wanted to do so ever so much more, but I wouldn’t, for it was telling the enemy where we are, and if we do much of that sort of thing we shall be having that pleasant Yankee coming shooting with his men, and we don’t want that.”
“Of course not, Tom, but we must risk it, for the poor fellow may be somewhere within reach waiting for help.”
“Then why don’t he holler, sir?”
“Perhaps he has shouted till he is worn-out, Tom.”
“Then he can’t be within reach, sir, or else we should ha’ heered him, for he’s got a pretty good pipe of his own.”
“Well, hail him, Tom.”
“All right, sir, but ’tween you and me and the starn post your voice would go farther than mine would.”