“Lie? No, old boy,” said Bob kindly; “but it isn’t you talking. Your head’s all in a muddle.”
“Head? muddle? Not I!” cried Ali excitedly. “There! Hark! I told you so!”
As he spoke there was the sharp crack of a rifle, then another, and another, and a rattling scattered volley.
“Something wrong at the island, sir,” reported one of the watch.
“By Jove! he’s right!” cried the lieutenant, rushing out of the cabin. “Quick, Roberts!”
“Yes—clothes—my kris!” cried Ali joyfully. “I’ll fight with you.”
For answer Bob ran to his own berth, hastily threw the young Malay one of his spare suits; and then, quickly buckling on his sword, ran on deck, where the lieutenant was striding up and down, giving his orders.
“That’s right, Roberts,” he cried. “They’re hard at work at the island.”
The next moment Bob was running here and there, seeing that his superior’s orders were executed. The drums had already beat to quarters, and with the wondrous business-like rapidity with which matters are done on board a man-of-war every man was at his place, the ports flew open, the magazine was unfastened, and while the moorings were cast off astern, and those ahead ready to be dropped at a moment’s notice, the furnaces were roaring furiously, and every effort being made by the firemen to get up steam.
It was like the turning of a handle. There was no confusion; the whole machine was ready for action; guns loaded, and marines and sailors armed ready for any contingency that might befall the steamer.