“We’re beaten, Tom; we’re absolutely beaten,” said Murray bitterly; “and the next time the wretches come on it will be the last.”
“Oh, I dunno, sir. Never say die! Don’t you be downhearted, sir. There’s a deal o’ fight in us yet, as you’ll see nex’ time the beggars makes a roosh.”
“No, Tom; we’re getting weaker and weaker.”
“Yah! I wonder at you, sir,” said the sailor, moistening his hand, taking a good grip of his cutlass, and then laying it down again. “We’re getting a bit longer rest this time, and jest as like as not, sir, they’ll begin to tire soon.”
“No, Tom; they fight with a desperate energy which is too much for us.”
“Well, they do go it, sir, I must say. You see, it makes a deal o’ differ when a man’s got a noose round his neck. They knows that if they don’t get the best of us they’ll be strung up to the yard-arm, and it sets ’em thinking that they may as well fight it out as that. But there, we’re not licked yet, sir, though I must say as it was a nasty knock for us when the first luff went down, knocked silly as he was by that swivel-eyed Molatter chap—’bout as ugly a ruffian as ever I did see. Then, too, it was a bit o’ hard luck for us when that darkie chap got rooshed off in the muddle. He would ha’ been useful to fetch powder and help load.”
“When there was no powder, Tom?” said the lad bitterly.
“Yes, sir; I meant if there had been any, o’ course. Poor chap, he couldn’t help being a black un, could he, sir? I’ve thought over and over again that if he could ha’ grown white and talked like a Christian, sir, he’d ha’ made quite a man.”
“Lie still, Tom,” cried Murray, laying a hand upon the big sailor’s arm.
“Thought they was coming on agen, sir?”