“Look here, Mr Terry,” said Roylance, firmly; “the man is, in his way, quite right.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried the others, who had closed in, following their messmate.
“Quite right?”
“Yes; Mr Dallas put you under arrest.”
“Mr Dallas is ill—dying, and unable to give orders, sir. I am your senior.”
“Oh, you’re welcome to take command for me,” cried Roylance. “I don’t want the responsibility.”
“Once more, my lads, I warn you of the consequences. Will you go to your work?”
There was no reply, and the men drew back, while Terry stood looking along their faces with his pistol raised.
“Mind that there don’t go off, please, sir,” said Rogers, dryly. “You might hit me.”
There was a roar of laughter at this, and Terry stamped with rage.