“Well,” said the captain at last, “we have no time to waste upon sympathy. I am sorry to say, gentlemen, that I fear I can do little in this terrible emergency. You have decided to defend yourselves, and, God helping us we may get back our positions in the ship, but it can only be by making a stout defence, and waiting for an opportunity to surprise the scoundrels at some weak moment, say when they have been for a long time at the spirits on board.”
“To be sure,” said Mr Frewen. “There is no cause for despair with such a formidable arrangement. The scoundrels dare not attack us.”
“Well,” said Captain Berriman, slowly, “I have brought out all the arms, but I have a painful announcement to make. The traitor who came round to secure us in our cabins had carried off all the cartridges he could, and those left in the cases had been deluged with water.”
“Great heaven!” cried Mr Frewen, excitedly; “then the weapons are useless.” Captain Berriman was silent.
“Stop a moment!” cried Mr Frewen; and he ran into his cabin, to return with a revolver which he threw on the table. “Useless,” he said. “The case of cartridges gone. Here, Mr Denning, see to your gun,—see what cartridges you have.”
Mr Denning threw open the breech of his double-barrelled gun, examined the two cartridges, and closed the breech again.
“All right!” he said, and then he reeled and would have fallen if Mr Preddle had not caught him.
“Don’t!” he cried, pettishly. “I mean, thank you. It was a horrible thought. I saw some one come out of my cabin last evening, I’m sure now. I thought then it was fancy. Some one has been—to steal—the case of cartridges I brought.”
He walked feebly but quickly to his cabin, shut the door after him, and then Mr Preddle went to his cabin, to come back directly, shaking his head.
“Some one has taken all mine but one,” he said. “The lid is off the box, and this is the only one left.”