At the same moment one of the men forward hailed, but I could not catch what he said for the creaking of the bulk-heads.
“Ay, ay, I saw it,” answered Pottle. “What did it look like to you, Martin?”
“I thought it looked like the flash of firearms,” was the reply, which I this time heard distinctly.
“So did I,” gruffly remarked Pottle. “Depend on’t, Mr Boyne, there’s something going on down there to the south’ard which ought to be looked into. Just step down below and give Mr Lascelles a call, will ye?”
I sprang out of my cot, slipped my stockingless feet into my shoes, drew on my jacket, and met young Boyne at the cabin door.
“Well, Mr Boyne,” said I, “what is the news? I heard Mr Pottle ask you to call me.”
“Yes, sir,” said the lad. “He says he has seen something like the flash of firearms down in the southern quarter, and the lookout also has reported it.”
“All right,” said I. “I will be up in a moment.”
And turning up the cabin lamp for an instant to take a look at the barometer, which I found to be steady, I stumbled up the companion-ladder, and, blinking like an owl in daylight, made my way out on deck.
“Whew!” I exclaimed, “this is darkness, indeed. Where are you, Mr Pottle?”