“But my mother?”
“Yes, I’m sorry for your mother, but you’re too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap’s young wife will have to wait till he comes back.”
“But you will let me send a message to them at home?”
“To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don’t give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long.”
He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused.
“Not very nice for a lad like you,” he said, not unkindly. “Here, bring these two out, my lads; we’ll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along.”
A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor.
“Where shall we put ’em, sir?” said a sailor.
“Top floor and make fast,” said the bluff man.
“But you will let me send word home?” began Don.