“They’d take it kindly, sir, if you’d give about half of us leave to go ashore for a few hours.”
“Oh, well, my man, I have no objection whatever,” said Uncle Paul. “As far as I am concerned, by all means yes.”
“Thankye, sir; much obliged, sir,” said the man eagerly, and pulling his forelock again he hurried forward to join the group which had sent him as their spokesman to ask for leave.
Rodd turned to speak to his uncle, and caught Joe Cross’s eye instead, wondering at the man’s comical look at him as he closed an eye and jerked one thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the group forward as they began whispering together, and then, thrust forward towards the side by his companions, the Bun began to signal towards the Frenchmen hanging about the nearest landing-place, where several boats were made fast to the side of the dock.
Just at that moment the skipper came up from below, saw what was going on at a glance, strode towards the group, which began to dissolve at once, the Bun being the only man whose attention was taken up by a boatman who was answering his signal. Just while the signaller was making his most energetic gestures he leaped round in the most startled way, for the skipper had closed up and given him a very smart slap on the shoulder.
“Now, Rumsey, what’s this?” he cried.
“Boat, sir. Going ashore, sir.”
“Who is?” said the skipper, frowning.
“Us six, sir.”
“Us six! Why, you’re only one.”