In our absence “Old Jock” had ferreted out from some other hiding-place of his a couple of swords and a number of cutlasses, which he likewise directed us to take up the companion, he assisting us; until, presently, we had the whole armoury arranged on the top of the cabin skylight.
“Now, Mackay,” said Captain Gillespie, blowing like a grampus after his exertions, “take y’r choice, but I think that the two best shots in the ship ought to have the Martini rifles; and if I were picking out the picked marksmen—he! he! that’s a joke, ‘picking’ and ‘picked,’ didn’t intend it though—I’d have chosen y’rself and the bosun!”
Of course we all laughed at his joke, as he had taken such pains to point it out; and he was so pleased with it himself that it was some time before he could speak again, he sniffed and snorted so much.
“Not bad that, Mackay,” he said; “not bad—eh? But which of these things would ye like best—eh?”
“I think I’ll take the breech-loader, sir,” replied the other, suiting the action to the word and proceeding to examine the lock of one of the Martini-Henrys, which seemed to be an old acquaintance of his, for he loaded the chamber much quicker than I could manage my new acquisition; “and I don’t believe you could do better than hand the other to Rooney, as you suggested. He’s the best shot in the ship, I’m certain.”
“Y’rself excepted,” interposed the captain wonderfully politely for him; singing out loudly at the same time, “Bosun!”
“Here, sorr,” cried Tim, who had been waiting below close to the poop ladder, expecting the summons, and who was all agog at the prospect of a fight. “Here I am, sorr.”
“Well, bosun,” said Captain Gillespie, “it looks as if we’ll have to fight those rascals coming up astern and making for us. The cowards! They didn’t dare attack the old barquey when she was all ataunto in the open sea; and only now rely on their numbers and the fact of our being in limbo here. However, if they do attack us, we shall have a fight for it.”
“Bully for ye, sorr!” cried Tim enraptured. “It’s mesilf as loikes a fight, sure. I’m niver at pace barrin’ whin I’m in a row, sure, sorr!”
“Then you’ll be soon in your element,” retorted Jock grimly. “Call the hands aft.”