“Sam Grote.”
“Here, but ain’t got no head.”
“Bob Stepney.”
“Here; and wish I warn’t,” came surlily out of the darkness.
“Don’t you be sarcy ’fore your orficers, Bob, or there may be a row,” said Tom Fillot, sharply.
“I can’t see no orficers, messmate,” said the same voice.
“That’ll do, Bob Stepney. That’s cheek. Tim Dunning.”
“That’s me.”
“All here, sir, and able to use their tongues. Fisties, too, I dessay.”
“The two blacks!” said Mark, quickly, and with a feeling of thankfulness to find matters so far well.