“Yes,” said Mr Denning, in a low voice, almost a whisper to himself, “for my sister’s sake,”—and he moved a little to one side, where he could get a better aim and command the outer portion of the door, though it was only through quite a slit.
“Hah!” cried Jarette, then in a triumphant tone—“but too much, my lads. We don’t want to blow out the side of the ship. She’s too much value to us now. Never mind, we’ll use half of it to make a good long train. Come, lieutenant, here’s a chance for you to distinguish yourself before the men. You shall lay the train.”
“I? Lay the powder?” cried Walters, so excitedly that the men burst into a roar of laughter.
“Bah! Don’t show the white feather, boy. It must be done. What? You won’t?”
“No,” said Walters, quickly. “They’ve got a spite against me, and will shoot me. Let some one else.”
Jarette uttered a fierce ejaculation.
“Stand aside then,” he growled, “and let some one who is a man do it. Here, any one of you come and plant this powder, and show young Walters here how brave lads fight.”
We listened full of excitement for the next moment, as every one watched Mr Denning standing there close to the opening in the barricade, his arms and the gun invisible as he reached through toward the saloon-door. But there was perfect silence, not a movement to be heard, as Jarette burst into a nasty harsh laugh.
“Don’t all want to do the job?” he cried. “Not one to volunteer? Why, you laugh at me, and call me Frenchy, and brag about your English pluck, and not one man will come forward. Here you, Bob Hampton, your trick’s over at the wheel; come and lay this powder.”
“What, to blow in the cabin-door?” came in familiar tones. “All right, skipper; only I don’t know much about powder to make trains. You wet in, don’t wild-fire on it?”