“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Hah! look-out!”
Crash.
“Well done, my lad.”
This was as a pistol was once more thrust out, and the hand which held it appeared ready for Soup to hit at, which he did, and missed. But, all the same, the hand and pistol disappeared, and the next minute Tom and Dick, one on each side, thrust the cover over the hatch as they crawled forward, Tom flinging himself across it, while the rest of the men hauled away, and began to pile on the chain cable.
Bang again—a pistol-shot fired up through the hatchway lid, and Tom gave a sharp start.
“Ah! Hurt?” cried Mark, excitedly, as the sailor rolled over, while as quickly as possible more of the cable was piled up where he had lain.
“Dunno yet, sir,” said Tom, rising up and feeling his side. “Something give me an awful whack on the ribs. Don’t look like a dead ’un, do I?”
“Don’t say you’re wounded, Tom,” said Mark, in a hoarse whisper.
“Wasn’t going to, sir,” replied the man, whose hands were still busy feeling his side. “No, I don’t think I’m wounded; don’t feel like it—only savage, and as if I should like to drop on to the chap as fired that shot. I know: I have it. The bullet must have hit the chain, and drove it against my ribs. I’m all right, sir. Deal o’ fight in me yet.”