“Barney, keep near me, and tell me what to do,” whispered Syd; “I feel such a fool.”
“You dear lad,” said the old man, softly. “Why, I’ve been that proud on you to-day as never was, and been wishing the capen was here.”
“Nonsense! Now about getting up these guns. I can’t tell the men what to do.”
“Yah! you’re right enough. All you’ve got to do is to look on and say, ‘Now, my lads, with a will!’ and, ‘Come, bo’sun, don’t play with it!’ And, ‘Altogether, my lads!’ and you’ll see them guns mounted in no time. Steady; here’s Mr Roylance coming.”
“But it seems to be only playing at captain, and I don’t—”
“Ay, ay, sir,” roared the boatswain. “You’re right. Parbuckle it is. Be smart, my lads, and get down a cask. One o’ them as the stores was in.”
There was a hearty assent, as Syd said to himself, “What does he mean by ‘parbuckle’?”
“Cast off these here ropes, sir,” shouted Strake again. “Ay, ay, sir. Now, my lads, off with them.”
The men trotted here and there with the greatest of alacrity, and by the time the ropes were unfastened from the first gun, a cask was rolled to the end of the gap, lowered down, and placed by the end of the gun.
The boatswain came to Syd’s side again.