“Ask the mutinous scoundrels what they mean,” he said.
The boatswain went up to the knot of men.
“Now then, you swabs,” he growled; “what’s these here games?”
“We arn’t going to have him playing at skipper over us,” said one of them. “The luff put him under arrest for interferin’.”
“Ay, ay,” growled the others; “we don’t want he.”
“S’pose you know it’s hanging at the yard-arm for mutiny, my lads?” said the boatswain, gruffly.
“Mutiny? Who want’s to mutiny?” said another. “We’re ready enough to work, arn’t we, messmates?”
“Ay, ay,” came in chorus.
“Then lay hold o’ the rope, and let’s have them guns up yonder.”
“Ay, to be sure; we’ll get the guns up,” said another man; “but Mr Terry’s under ’rest.”