“An’ noo, Geordie man,” said Sir Hector, lowering his voice, “’twas a mighty ill business yon, last nicht!”
“Why, I dunno, sir,” answered Mr. Potter, stirring his grog thoughtfully, “we brought away every tub an’ bale—arl safe stowed, they be.”
“Aye, but the shooting, man, the bluidshed!”
“Naun so bad, sir—though poor Will Burgess took a musket-ball through ’is leg.”
“An’ the sojers, Geordie? Nine sojers an’ twa o’ the coastguard desp’ret wounded! O man,’twas awfu’ ... an’ if ane o’ them should dee ... ’twould be noose an’ gibbet, y’ ken!”
Mr. Potter smiled dreamily, and was his most guileless self as he answered:
“They wunt die, sir—nary a one on ’em! They’ll be up an’ about again by now—though salt be apt to sting, an’ likewise smart a bit, d’ye see——”
“Salt?” exclaimed Sir Hector.
“Rock-salt, sir,” nodded Mr. Potter placidly. “I charged arl our pieces wi’ liddle lumps o’ rock-salt as couldn’t ’ardly ’arm a babby noo-born.”