Carey looked at the man with so much disgust painted in his face that Bostock shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, p’raps that would be a bit strong, sir, but one must do something, and it won’t do to leave him down there shooting at everyone who goes nigh.”
“Let’s get to the doctor first,” said Carey.
“Nay, sir; I aren’t going to let you go down them stairs and be shot again, whether you’re my officer or whether you aren’t,” said the old sailor, stoutly.
“I am not going down that way. We must get axes to work and enlarge the opening through the skylight,” said Carey.
“Ah, now you’re talking sense, sir. Of course, but you’ll have a revolver?”
Carey nodded, and Bostock hurried off, to return in a few minutes without the objects of which he had been in search.
“Well, where are the arms?” cried Carey.
“Aren’t got ’em yet, sir. Them chaps want me to light a fire and cook the thumping big snake they’ve got, and it’s a horrid idee, sir. The oven’ll never be fit to use again. They made signs that if I didn’t they’d light a fire on the deck, and one chap began rubbing his fire-sticks to get a light.”
“I can’t spare you, Bob,” cried Carey, anxiously. “What am I to do? Here, I know,” said the boy, rising to the emergency. “Here, Jackum!”