At last the time seemed to him to be a fitting one for the venture, and, giving the signal, his men started up from amongst the dewy herbage; there was the clink of arms and a rustling noise as all fell into their places; and, taking the head of his little force, Gil gave his final orders, especially commanding silence, and made for the Pool-house.
Gil’s plans were well matured, and his followers fell into their respective places without confusion. Arriving pretty close to the foundry, he posted them behind the smallest of the furnace-sheds, where the black shadow of night was blacker than in the open; and then, with Wat at his elbow, he made for another shed, where he knew that a short stout ladder was kept.
This was in its place, and Wat was about to shoulder it, when in a low hoarse whisper the old fellow said:—
“You’ll let me take her, too, skipper?”
For answer Gil turned angrily.
“Put that ladder down,” he whispered; “and go back. Send Morris.”
“No, no, skipper,” whispered the old fellow hastily. “Let me go.”
“Put down the ladder. Go back, and send me a trustworthy man.”
“I’m the trust worthiest man you’ve got, skipper,” growled Wat, “only I was obliged to say a word for I feel as I ought to marry the girl now. You don’t know what it is to be in love, skipper, or you would not treat me thus.”
“Do you go, or stay?” said Gil.