Just an hour after this, the prisoners could tell that the rum was doing its work. Maudlin songs, and the sound of revelry, rose higher and higher.
But there was no quarrelling.
These sounds, however, died gradually away, and by three bells in the morning watch not a sound was to be heard in the ship.
Twenty long weary minutes passed by; each minute seemed an hour.
The fastenings were being undone, and the door was opened.
It was Johnnie, sure enough.
But before he could enter or even speak, he had to hold back his head several times, his eyes taking refuge behind his fat cheeks, and laugh low to himself.
“All drunk as biled owls,” said the fat boy at last, “and a-sleepin’, jist like babes as ever was.”
Then he handed Antonio a basket: seven loaded revolvers and as many daggers lay within.