“Jackson?”
“Sitting on the forksle-hatch.”
“Sacré! Where’s Bob Hampton?”
“Hee-ar!” came from the direction of the way down to the lower deck.
“Come up here and take the wheel.”
“Ay, ay,” growled the familiar voice, and I felt heart-sick to hear it, for Bob Hampton would have been the first man I should have picked out as one to be trusted, while the sound of his voice made it appear that every one would be against us.
But though these thoughts flashed through my mind, I was listening all the time intently to what went on below, striving as I was to grasp the real state of affairs.
“Here you are then, Bob Hampton. Behold you, my friend, though it’s so dark I can’t see you,” said Jarette, and I heard a low chuckling noise which I recognised as Bob Hampton’s laugh.
“And that’s a bull as arn’t an Irish one,” he said.
“Ah, yes, faith of a man, but don’t you try to be funny, my man,” said Jarette, “for this is not a funny time, when men are working with their necks in the hang-dog noose. Now, look here, my friend, I did not ask you to join us, because I did not trust you; but you have joined us to save your skin; so you had better work for us well, or—there, I will not say ugly things. You are a good sailor, Bob Hampton, and know your work, and it would be a pity if you were to be knocked overboard and drowned.”