"We want you, Joe Gumley," came the hoarse answer, "and we're gwine to have 'ee, too."
"I bean't deaf, Tom Berry, so ye needn't bust your fog-horn. What do 'ee want wi' me?"
"We'll show 'ee. You bin peaching, you dirty mean sneaker. Come down along, and we'll give 'ee a fair trial afore the men as used to be your mates."
"No, thank 'ee, Tom. Whoever says I bin peaching says a lie, and as for trial, why, I bean't a fool, I bean't. If I wants trying I'll go afore a justice o' the peace like Squire Bastable, or a judge and jury at the 'sizes, and not afore Tom Berry or Bill Widdicombe or any other mumble-chopped chaw-bacon. See then, I don't want to use hard words to old ship-mates o' mine, but—"
Jack heard no more, for Gumley's words were drowned by a volley of shouts and curses from the men below. He let down the window with a bang.
"They be coming over, sir," he called to Jack. "'Tis all hands to repel boarders. They're mounting on balks of wood to 'scape the nails. Now they're over. And they be split into two parties, half a dozen each; and one's coming straight for the front door; t'other's gone round to the back. I be coming, sir, I be coming."
By the time he reached Jack's side the men had begun to batter simultaneously at both the doors with the balks of wood which, knowing Gumley, they had brought with them, evidently anticipating resistance. The men at the front door were protected by a narrow porch; those at the back were fully exposed; and Jack saw that unless something were done at once to check them they would soon be able to break a way in, for the doors were not very substantial pieces of timber, and could not long stand the heavy battering to which they were now being subjected.
He stood with Gumley and the dog at the front door.
"What's your blunderbuss loaded with, Gumley?" he said.
"Small shot, sir."