“Couldn’t, Tom. It does smart so.”
“But s’pose your whiskers had growed, sir. Why, it would ha’ took all them off too.”
“Don’t—don’t talk, man,” cried Mark impatiently. “Only try if you can see what’s going on. How was it we didn’t see the Nautilus before?”
“She must ha’ come round some pynte sudden-like, and took ’em on the hop, sir. We couldn’t make her because we can only see just astarn. They’re luffing a bit aboard the Naughtylass to fire. There she goes.”
Almost as he spoke there was a white puff of smoke, a shot came skipping along the surface and then went right over the schooner, and splashed in the sea beyond.
“Hadn’t we better hyste them colours out o’ winder?” said Tom.
“What for?” said Mark, trying to suppress the manifestations of pain which would keep showing.
“They’ll think we’ve surrendered and cease firing.”
“But that would be helping the schooner to escape.”
“Why, of course, sir,” cried Tom, slapping his leg; “that wouldn’t do no good. I was only thinking of its being onpleasant to sit here and be shot at by one’s own messmates. But it don’t matter; they can’t hit very often.”