“Yes,” said the man quietly.
“Not a lilly white barrel?”
“No, sah; lilly black barrel. Two—ten—twenty lilly barrel.”
“What!” cried Murray excitedly. “Where is it?”
“Down’tair,” said the black, speaking with more animation now. “Massa Murray Frank wantum?”
“Yes, of course,” cried the lad. “Where do you say it is? Down-stairs?”
“Yes, massa. Down’tair long wi’ Massa Allen bottle of wine. Plenty bottle o’ wine. Two, ten, twenty lilly barrel black powder.”
“Avast there, my lads,” said the big sailor, in a deep, low whisper. “Rouse and bit, my chickens. Here’s corn in Egypt and no mistake.” And then, as the men sprang up ready to meet another attack, even if it might be the last, Tom May turned to Murray. “Beg pardon, sir, but what’s it to be?”
“Get a barrel of powder up directly, Tom,” replied the lad; “that is, if it doesn’t turn out too good to be true. You serve it out to the lads, too, and be ready to give the enemy a surprise when they come on again.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but hadn’t we better make it a mine, sir? Clap a couple o’ barrels just in their way. Lay a train, and one on us be ready to fire it just as they’re scrowging together under the window.”