“Are you dead yet?” said Tucket.
“I’m well, thanks. I’m thinking of Mr. Stukeley.”
There came a sort of growl of “Stukeley” from the seamen about him. “Stukeley,” they said. “He’s a mother’s joy, the Portuguese drummer’s get.”
“Stukeley,” said Tucket. “He put that little quiff on us on the beach. I ain’t goin’ to drown no one, shedding tears for Stukeley.”
“Nor I,” said the man called Jude. “I’d only bought them pants a week.”
“Pants,” said Tucket. “You’d not a wanted many pants if Ed and Mr. Margaret hadn’t been in the water. Them two in the water made ’em rush. If they’d come slow, you’d a been a hit in the neck with that chewed slug, my son. Don’t you forget it.”
“Did anybody see Mr. Stukeley?” Margaret asked. “Was he in the rush? Could anybody see in the smoke?”
“No, sir. No one saw him.”
“Then why do you think he, he prompted the raid? What makes you think that?”
“They’ve always received flags of truce before,” he answered. “And you’d a commission besides. You aren’t like one of us. Why didn’t they shoot when we put the son-of-a-gun ashore? I’ll tell you. They thought we were ordinary flag of truce. That curly-headed gentleman’s son put ’em up to it, after dinner. Why? I know. That’s why.”