“That’s a true word, sir.”
“You would not like to kill them all in cold blood, my man?”
“No, sir, that’s a butchery sort o’ way; but I’m ready to give ’em a wopses’ nest squib to bring ’em to their senses.”
“Out of their senses, man!” cried Mr Frewen, impatiently. “It means death, I tell you—wholesale murder. The men, I repeat, are not rats.”
“Well, sir, they’re behaving like ’em, and there’s no gammon about it now. They’re desprit; Jarette’s worked ’em up; and they’ve got the judge to face if we take ’em into port. Strikes me it’s our lives or theirn; but you knows best. I was thinking about the young lady.”
Just then the chopping began again, and Mr Brymer raised his pistol and fired.
The chopping ceased, and there was a burst of loud talking. Then all was still for hours, while a careful watch was kept until morning.