“Neb, old lad,” cried Bob, “give a hye to the red-hot poker, and when I cries ‘Sarvice!’ out you runs with it, and hands it to me.”
“Ay, ay,” growled Dumlow, in his deepest bass.
“It’s all right, Mr Dale, sir,” whispered Bob. “You can’t hit ’em with that thing if you try ever so; but it’ll splash up the water, and scare the lot on ’em so that old Frenchy ’ll have no end of a job to get ’em to come on.”
I felt better at that, and waited for the attack. Mr Frewen was back with us, and Mr Preddle too. Mr Denning was also in his old place with his gun; and as the men, including the four who had joined us, were armed with the weapons they had brought from the boat, they made a respectable show.
“But do you think we can trust those men?” I whispered to Bob.
“Trust ’em, my lad?” he replied, with a chuckle. “You jest may. They knows it would be all over with ’em if once Frenchy got ’em under his thumb again. Don’t you be scared about them; they’ll fight like gamecocks.”
“If we could only get the wind again,” said Mr Frewen, who looked anxious.
“Is there any chance of it, Bob?” I asked.
“Can’t say, sir. Maybe we shall get a breeze; maybe we shan’t. But never mind; we’ll raise a storm for them in the boats, in precious few minutes too. She’s charged all right, arn’t she, sir?”
“Oh yes,” said Mr Preddle. “I rammed the cartridge well home, and primed the touch-hole with powder.”