“Ay, under the flank, sir, you mean, in a tender and vital part; but how, then, shall we fare, sir, if we have to chastise the crew of the lugger if they don’t surrender Croft?”
“If we attempt that we shall be at a low elevation and almost stationary. Even then I should not think of wasting an ounce of powder or shot, unless we were first attacked and driven to act on the defensive.”
“You haven’t told Warner, Mr Goodall,” said Tom Trigger, who had been thoroughly enjoying the rehearsal, “that besides all sorts of firearms, we are provided with an air-gun.”
“A most suitable weapon, I should say,” replied the detective, “for with that you might wing or disable them without making a noise, which might be a further vital point, sir; but as to myself, Mr Goodall, I beg to say that I am provided with my own bull-dog.”
“Revolver, you mean, I suppose?”
“I sit corrected, sir, and need not produce my pistol in evidence.”
“No, don’t do that if it is charged, Simon.”
“It is as empty, sir, as my poor stomach, which, to tell you the truth, Mr Goodall, has had nothing solid in it for fifteen hours at least, and what with looking for Croft last evening and for the balloon this morning, I have entirely neglected myself.”
“No doubt Warner is as hungry as a hunter, sir,” said Trigger, as if he were saying one word for the detective and two for himself.
“Warner is a hunter, Tom, and will do honour to the chase; but pipe to breakfast—I had forgotten what we had in store—and give Warner a dash of cognac with a bottle of aerated water to begin with.”