“Then I feel disposed to do it,” cried the middy passionately. Then stooping to pick up the dirk, which had slipped from his hand, to fall with a loud jingle upon the polished floor, “No, I don’t,” cried the lad, in a vexed, appealing way. “I couldn’t help it, Tom! Look here, old lad; you’ve always been a good stout fellow, ready to stand by me in trouble.”
“Ay, ay, sir, I have,” said the man quietly, “and will again.”
“Then help me now, Tom. Can’t you see what a mess I’m in? Here has the captain entrusted me with the care of this prisoner—for prisoner he is, and you can’t make anything else of him.”
“Ay, ay, sir; prisoner he is, and you can’t make nowt else of him.”
“That’s right, Tom,” cried the lad, growing quite despairing in his tones. “Sooner or later Mr Anderson or Mr Munday will be coming to relieve me of my charge, and the first question whoever it is will ask me will be, Where’s your prisoner?”
“Ay, ay, sir! That’s right enough.”
“There, there! Look at it in a straightforward business-like way,” cried the lad, and to his disgust the man slowly turned his eyes all about the place.
“Bah!” cried Murray angrily. “What are you thinking of? Can’t you understand that I want you to help me?”
“Ay, ay, sir, and I’m a-trying as hard as nails, sir,” said the man, rousing himself up to speak more sharply; “but somehow my head don’t seem as if it would go.”
“Think, man—think!” cried the middy appealingly.