“Bob! Are you there?” cried Carey, for there was a chilling silence below.
“Ay, ay!” came in half-smothered tones, and this was followed by the sound of someone turning out of a bunk. The next minute Bostock’s bloodstained face appeared, with a tremendous swelling on the brow, the result evidently of a blow given with marlin-spike or club.
“Bob!” cried Carey, wildly, as he caught the old sailor’s hand.
“Master Carey!” cried the injured man, stumbling out as if giddy. “This is a good sight, dear boy.”
“Which of the blacks struck you that cowardly blow?”
“Nay, nay, it warn’t one of the black fellows, my lad, but Old King Cole himself.”
“But how? why—what for?”
“Don’t you puzzle a chap with too many questions at once, my lad, for my head’s a bit swimming.”
“Oh, Bob, my poor fellow! Here, Jackum, a bucket of water to bathe his head.”
“Bucketum waterum? Iss!” cried the black, darting off, and Bostock seated himself on an upturned barrel.