“No, sir. If they hear us at work, and attack, we’ve got to retreat over the bridge fast as we can, and get it hoisted. Say you’ve got these guns manned and loaded, a shot or two might check the attacking party; but how in the dark are we to know when it is best to fire? How are we to take aim? And what’s to prevent our hitting friends instead of enemies.”
“Fire high, over their heads.”
“That’s wasting two good charges for the sake of making a noise. I don’t think I’d trouble about them to-night, sir.”
“No; you’re right.—Eh, Master Pawson?” said Roy.
“I don’t much understand these things,” said the secretary; “but it sounds the more sensible idea. You’re not offended by my speaking out?”
“No; but I soon shall be if you all treat me as if I thought of nothing but dressing up as a soldier, and wanting to have my own way over matters where I’m wrong. Come along, down.”
Roy led the way down through the corner turret, Master Pawson following and Ben coming last; while, as they wound round the narrow spiral, the secretary turned his head to whisper—
“He’ll make a splendid officer, Martlet.”
The only reply he obtained was a very hog-like grunt; then Ben spoke to himself:
“I wish to goodness you were along o’ the enemy, or anywhere but here; you’re supposed to be a friend, but somehow I can’t never feel as if you are one. My cantank’rousness, I s’pose. Not being a scholard like you, maybe. Anyhow, though, I’m more use just now than you are; not but what that’s easy, for you aren’t none at all.”