“Now, you scoundrel,” he said; “what does this mean?”
“Beg pardon, sir; that’s what we want to know.”
“Then I’ll tell you, sir; it’s rank mutiny.”
“There now, bo’sun; that’s just what we thought,” said Rogers, turning to him. “I know’d it was, and that’s why we wouldn’t come.”
“You scoundrel! You’re playing with me,” cried Terry.
“Nay, sir; not me. Wouldn’t ketch me play with a orficer with a big sword in his hand.”
“Then tell me what you mean. You said it was mutiny, and so you would not come.”
“That’s it, sir. Sworn to sarve the King; and when a young orficer, which is you, sir, breaks out of arrest, and wants to lead a lot of poor chaps wrong, ’tarn’t me as ’ll risk my neck.”
Terry’s jaw dropped at this unexpected reply, and Roylance burst into a roar of laughter, in which he was joined by Syd, while Strake stood with his face puckered up like a year-old pippin, and rubbed his starboard ear.
“Mr Roylance!” cried Terry at last, “how is discipline to be preserved while you encourage the men in this tomfoolery? I shall report it to the captain, sir.”