“Say, sir? Why, what such a British officer as Cap’n Maitland’s sure to say, sir, as he won’t rest till he’s blown that there schooner right out of the water.”
“And those poor blacks,” sighed Mark.
“Ah, it’s hard lines for them poor chaps, and the women and bairns too, even if they are niggers. Oh, if I’d only got that there skipper by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his breeches! Sharks might have him for all I should care. In he’d go. Hookey Walker, how my head do ache all round!”
“I’m very sorry, Tom Fillot.”
“Which I knows you are, sir; and it ain’t the first trouble as we two’s been in together, so cheer up, sir. Daylight’ll come some time, and then we’ll heave to and repair damages.”
Just then there was a low groan from forward.
“That’s one of our blacky-toppers, sir. ’Tarn’t a English groan. You feel; you’ll know him by his woolly head, and nose. If he’s got a nose hooked one way, it’s Soup. If it’s hooked t’other way—cocks up—it’s Taters.”
“The hair is curly,” said Mark, who was investigating.
“P’raps it’s Dick Bannock, sir. There, I said it warn’t an English groan.”
By this time some of the men were recovering from the stunning effect of the blows they had all received, and there were sounds of rustling and scuffles.