He was making for the cabin door, when Mark seized and clung to him.
“Come on, my lads,” cried Tom. And then, “All right, sir; you lead them.”
“Don’t—don’t you see?” panted Mark.
“No, sir; who is to see in this blessed smoke? But you’re losing time. Come on.”
“The door isn’t open.”
“What? It must be. Come on.”
“I mustn’t go near,” cried Mark. “Look. These sparks.”
“Ay, you’re all afire, sir. What made you go so soon? You ought to have waited.”
“You don’t understand,” cried Mark, who could hardly sneak for trembling. “That was not the explosion. I—I stopped it.”
“You stopped it, sir,” cried Tom Fillot, as he kept on passing his hands over Mark’s garments to press out a few sparks which lingered there.