“Hush, father!” whispered the boy, coming out of the darkness. “Give’s a cutlash; the French is coming.”
“What? Where?” said Syd, eagerly. “To your guns, my lads.”
“No, no,” cried the boy, in a hurried whisper. “Not that way; they’re coming over the top there.”
“He’s been dreaming,” growled the boatswain. “What d’yer mean, you dog?”
“I arn’t been asleep,” cried Pan, angrily; “and I’m so hungry.”
“Tell me: what do you mean?” cried Syd.
“I’ve been a-watching o’ Mr Terry, sir. He went down on the rocks over yonder, and I lay down and see him make signs to the French ship, and two boats come out and rowed in close to where he was a-hiding down in one o’ them big cracks like I hid in and found the water.”
“Yes; go on,” whispered Syd, whose heart sank with apprehension.
“And he talked to ’em, and they talked to him, and then rowed back to the French ship.”
“What did they say?”