“Hold your noise, or you’ll have a fist in your mouth,” said a sharp voice. “Who are you?”
“Name Bodger. AB, King’s Navee. Pensioner for wounds. See?”
It was dark, but the shooting out of Tom’s wooden legs at right angles to his body from where he sat was plain enough to all of the group of well-armed sailors who surrounded the boat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Eating my supper; been mending our boat.”
“Then who is this?” said the same sharp voice.
“My young master. We got a hole in the boat’s bottom and had to put in for repairs.”
“That’s right enough, sir; here’s the oakum and tools. Been a fire. Here’s the little pitch kettle.”
“O’ course it’s right, messmets. What’s yer game—press-gang?”
“Hush!” whispered the commanding voice. “You’re an old sailor?”