“Go on, please,” said Mark.
“Of course I didn’t let him fire,” continued Bob, importantly. “How could I go plunging round-shot into the miserable schooner and kill no end of niggers? Wasn’t to be thought about. So we crowded on again till they dropped another black overboard, and we had to heave to and pick him up, and then another and another till we had got four. The other two were either hurt, I think, or so weak that they couldn’t swim, and the poor fellows went down before our lads could get to them.”
“How horrible!”
“Yes; it’ll be pretty horrible for Yankee Doodle if old Maitland ever gets his paw on him.”
“If ever—” began Mark.
“Will you lie down?” cried Bob.
“Well, I am lying down,” replied Mark. “I don’t feel as if I could sit up.”
“No, nor you won’t till Whitney and I have bricked and mortared you well.”
“Pray, pray go on, and tell me about capturing the schooner.”
“You won’t let me with your interruptions,” cried Bob. “It’s always the way with you fellows when you’re getting better. You are right down nasty.”