“We could all deal with him,” said Mr Frewen. “You two men come with us, and you, Dale, keep guard here with Mr Preddle. A shout will bring us back directly.”
“Right, sir,” I said, in a disappointed tone, and then I brightened up, for he told Dumlow to stop instead.
“Don’t be long,” said Mr Preddle. “I want to see to my fish.”
“On’y to think, gents,” growled Bob Hampton, holding a lantern while Mr Brymer and the doctor thrust fresh cartridges into their pistols, “the skipper—I mean Frenchy—sends Barney aft to speak to the men at the wheel, for they were steering anyhow, and he knowed as this game was going to be played, and—Eh? Well, what are you laughing at, Mr Dale? What have I said wrong?”
For I had burst into a roar of laughter, in which Mr Frewen joined.
Chapter Twenty Four.
“That’s one enemy the less to deal with,” cried the mate, as we went aft, followed by the sailor. “Only a couple of them to tackle.”
“I makes three of ’em, sir,” said Hampton, “so don’t you make no mistake. Barney will be as nasty as nasty at seeing hisself the wrong side, and find as he can fight when he likes.”