“If I go down to make sure the men will take alarm and there may be a rush,” said the mate coolly. “Here, go and rouse up Morgan quietly. Don’t say what’s wrong. I want him.”
“And my father?” panted Mark.
“Be cool, boy; everything depends on coolness now. I’m going there.”
In two minutes the captain and second-mate were out on deck, and Mark caught a glimpse of a pistol in his father’s breast, and saw him slip two into the officers’ hands.
“Gregory, Morgan,” he said, “you stop with the men. You, Gregory, with the watch; you, Morgan, keep guard over the forecastle hatch.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
The next minute the captain was below, Mark following him, and he heard him utter a deep sigh, almost a groan.
“Is it fire, father?” whispered Mark.
“Yes, my lad, somewhere down in the hold. Heaven help us! we are in a sore strait now. Who first noticed the fire?”
“It was Bruff, father; he is howling now.”