“Avast! what are yer doing on, Mr Frewen?—you’ll choke me.”
“You, Hampton?”
“Ay, at present.”
“I thought it was Jarette,” said Mr Frewen, panting.
“Wish it had been, my lad,” said the sailor, in the same husky whisper. “My word, you have got a grip! But there, I must get back; on’y look here. There’ll never be a better chance. Here’s an old bosun’s whistle; stuff it in yer pocket, and don’t blow it till the right moment. When you do, blow hard, and me, Barney, and Neb Dumlow’s with you.”
“But—”
“Butter be hanged, doctor. You’ve got three pistols, and the door’s open. You let out the mate, Mr Denning, and Mr Fishmonger; wait till you think the moment’s right, and then down on old Frenchy; whistle hard, and then we’ll all make a rush for the others, and drive ’em chock into the forksle, or overboard if they don’t mind. Off!”
“One moment, Hampton;” but there was a sharp rustling of oilskins, and the man had hurried through the saloon and out on deck, where Jarette’s voice could be heard shouting above the din of the wind and sea.
In the cabin then for a few moments there was silence, and I stood in that black darkness with my heart beating painfully, waiting for Mr Frewen to speak, and face to face with the thought that in a few minutes I might be engaged in a desperate struggle with a man and his followers, and that they would stop at nothing when attacked.
“Why don’t you speak—why don’t you speak?” I kept saying to myself, with a feeling of anger against the man who was absolutely torturing me by his silence.