“No, sir, we won’t,” chorused the men.
“Very well, then: don’t be bloodthirsty, but kill every scoundrel you can.”
There was a hearty laugh at this, for, even in times of peril, your genuine British seaman has a strong appreciation of fun, and in spite of their position the major’s ways and words had a spice of the droll in them.
Just at that moment Morgan came up, pistol in hand, his gun having been given to one of the men.
“Why, my dear Mr Morgan,” said the major, “this is not right. You are in hospital, sir.”
“No,” said Morgan grimly; “I am better now, and I’m not a bad shot with a revolver.”
“You had better leave it to us, Morgan,” said the first-mate. “You and Mark Strong go and lie down in shelter.”
“Oh, Mr Gregory,” cried Mark.
“Why, you miserable young cockerel,” said the major, “you don’t want to fight?”
“No, sir; but it seems so cowardly to go and hide away when the men are fighting.”