We knew the next moment who had fallen, for Jarette’s voice came to us in an angry snarl.
“You grinning idiots,” he cried, “take that!”
As he spoke there was the sharp report of a pistol, and a fearful shriek, followed by a fall, and a low moaning as of some one in agony.
“Serve him right!” cried Jarette. “Take him below. I’ll have the doctor out and send him down.”
A minute later, after we had listened to the meaning noise growing fainter, Jarette spoke again.
“There, Berriman,” he said, “that’s the stuff I’m made of, so no more nonsense; open the door and come out.”
“Come and open it yourself, you half-French poodle hound,” cried the captain, “and I’ll show you what stuff I’m made of, and save you the trouble of going through a trial before reaching the hangman.”
“You bragging idiot,” cried Jarette, fiercely, “open the door, or I’ll serve you as we served your miserable Brymer. Do you want to go overboard to join him?”
“No; Captain Berriman prefers to stay on board to see me pay you back in your own coin,” said the mate. “Now, sir, who’s the braggart now?”
Jarette was silenced for the moment, but he recovered himself directly.