“Hush!” I whispered.
We all listened, and plainly heard a step overhead, as if a man was walking along the deck. It passed by, sounding fainter, and died away, but at the end of a minute we heard it again, and knew that whoever it might be, he was returning and would pass by us again.
This happened, and I feared that he would notice the cuts in the tarpaulin, but he went on, the footsteps grew fainter, and I fancied that I heard them continue on the ladder as the man ascended to the poop-deck.
“Could you tell who that was, Bob?” I said.
“Ay, sir. No mistaking that pair o’ legs. They don’t go like an Englishman’s would. That was old Jarette.”
I set my teeth hard, and almost writhed at the feeling of impotence which troubled me. To have been so near success, and then for that scoundrel, who had promised to work faithfully for us if he were forgiven, to have played the spy, and contrived after hearing our plot to change the contents of the tins. For it was all clear enough now in my memory, and I could recall every word the man had said to the cook.
“We ought to have kept some one on the watch while we made our plans,” I said to myself, but felt how absurd it was to murmur now that the mischief was done.
The heat seemed a little less intense now, but it was so terrible that the throbbing in my head commenced again, and I was ready to order an attempt to be made to force up one side of the hatch, when there was a whisper.
“What say, Bob?” I replied.
“Didn’t speak, sir,” was the reply.