“I saw Eben Megg,” said the lad.
“And he’s about the worst on ’em, Master Aleck. Well, it strikes me his games are up for a bit. He’s a wunner to fight, and he’ll stick to his mates; but they won’t beat the press-gang off, for when they want men and it comes to a fight it’s the sailors who win. Well, it’d do young Megg good. He’s too much of a bully and rough ’un for me. Fine-looking chap, but thinks too much of hisself. Make a noo man of him to be aboard a man-o’-war for a few years.”
“Pst, Tom! Listen! They’re fighting up at the back there.”
“And no mistake, my lad.”
For fresh shouts, orders, and another whistle rang out, followed by what was evidently a fierce struggle, accompanied by blows, the sounds as they came out of the darkness being singularly weird and strange.
“Let’s get away, Tom,” said Aleck, huskily; “it’s horrible to listen to it.”
“Yes, sir. Heave away, both together. Now, then, she moves. No, she’s as fast as ever.”
“Oh!” groaned Aleck, striking both hands down with a loud smack upon the boat’s gunwale and then stopping short as if paralysed, for there were quick steps, then a rush, evidently up the nearest narrow way among the sheds.
Then all was silence, and a sharp voice cried:
“Halt there! Surrender, or I fire.”