“Get your pincushions all right, messmate,” said Bob Hampton, slapping Barney on the back, “and don’t growl; the game’s on’y just begun, and you shall have first innings next time.”
“Think there’ll be any more fighting, matey?” said Barney eagerly.
“Think there’ll be any more fighting? Just hark at him, gentlemen. Why, you grumbling old swab, do you think as, once having hold of the Burgh Castle and calling hisself skipper, old Frenchy’s the sort o’ man to let a few planks and a hatchway keep him from making another try? You wait a bit, old man, if you’re so precious anxious to get yourself made sore. Frenchy won’t forget us for gammoning him, and pretending to be on his side.”
“I ain’t hankshus to be made sore, Bob, old matey,” growled Barney; “it’s a kind o’ nat’ral feeling in me to make him sore, and I’m going to do it if I gets half a chance.”
“All right then, Mr Brymer ’ll see as you has one, I dessay.”
The next minute we were at the cabin in which the captain was lying, but he rose up on one arm as the door was thrown open and the light of the lantern flashed in.
Mr Frewen went to him directly.
“How are you?” he cried. “I could not come to you before.”
“Tell me,” cried Captain Berriman excitedly, “what has been going on?”
“Nothing much,” said Mr Frewen, smiling.