“I don’t know.”
“Will they kill us and throw us overboard?”
“No,” I whispered through. “If they had meant that, they would have done it at once. But don’t talk any more now.”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz.”
“What say?”
“Buzz, talk, buzz, buzz.”
I opened my penknife, for I knew that the reason why Mr Preddle’s words sounded so buzzy, was that a lot of little bits of wood were sticking up through the hole left by the gimlet. And so it proved, for after a little cutting all the words sounded clearly enough, and he promised to wait till I had attended to Mr Frewen’s injuries before asking any more questions.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll wait; but when one is in prison, and can talk to the prisoners next door, it does seem to do one good.”
I had just knelt down to see to Mr Frewen’s head, when I heard my name pronounced again.
“Yes,” I cried impatiently, “what is it?”