“Thank Heaven!” said Mark to himself, as he thought of how helpless he would have been without the frank young sailor who was completely his strong right hand.
By this time the hatch was loaded with coil upon coil of the strong chain, and, though a couple more shots were fired, the bullets were only flattened against the iron links.
“Hah, that gives us breathing time, my lads,” cried Mark. “Now then, what next?”
“Daylight’d be the best thing, sir,” said Dance; “and then I should be able to see about—”
He stopped short, put his hand to his head, and looked around vacantly.
“What was it I wanted to see about?”
“It’s all right, messmate; don’t you worry about that,” cried Tom, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Eh? No, I won’t, Tom,” said Dance, thoughtfully. “It’s my head goes all foggy sometimes, and then I can’t think; but I’m all right again, ain’t I, mate? Not going to be like the lufftenant, eh?”
“Not you,” said Tom Fillot.
The coxswain laughed.