“Or the gas from the combustion,” said the mate, leading me a little more from the part where the smoke arose.
“Pretty nigh combusted him, sir, if I hadn’t got hold on his arm.”
“Well, it’s a warning for us,” said Mr Brymer. “Now then, come and pass this hose along.”
I felt better now, and walked forward to where the pump was rigged, and helped to drag the hose along the narrow path beneath, the bulwarks to where Neb Dumlow was now stationed with the brass nozzle at the end of the canvas tube, and Mr Brymer instructed him how to direct the stream of water as soon as the pump was started.
“Better let me pump, sir,” he grumbled. “I understands that a deal better.”
“I set you to this, man, because of your wound. You are not fit to take your turn at the pump.”
“Well, I like that, sir. It makes me mut’nous, it do. Why, you wants all the strength yonder to take spells in pumping,” grumbled Dumlow; “wants men, don’t yer, while this here’s boy’s work, or might be done by the gal. A baby could handle this squirt.”
“If you can pump, for goodness’ sake go forward, and don’t talk now,” cried Mr Brymer, impatiently. “Here, Dale, is that sickness gone off?”
“Oh, yes,” I cried eagerly.
“Take the branch, then, and direct the stream. Right down, mind, where the glow rises. As he says, we want all our strength there, and you can serve us better here.”