“We may as well give it up for the present, and wait for a better time,” suggested Bark, who was as unable as his companion to solve the problem.
“No, I won’t,” replied Bill, taking a newspaper from his breast-pocket. “We may never have another chance; and I believe in striking while the iron is hot.”
“Don’t get us into a scrape for nothing. We can’t do any thing now,” protested Bark.
“Now’s the day, and now’s the hour!” exclaimed Bill, scowling like the villain of a melodrama.
“What are you going to do?” demanded Bark, a little startled by the sudden energy of his fellow-conspirator.
“Hold on, and you shall see,” answered Bill, as he raised the trap-door over the scuttle.
“But stop, Bill! you were not to do any thing without my consent.”
“All hands on deck! man the boats in fire order,” yelled the boatswain on deck, after he had blown the proper pipe.
Bill Stout paid no attention to the call or to the remonstrance of his companion. Raising the trap, he descended to the hold by the ladder under the scuttle. Striking a match, he set fire to the newspaper in his hand, and then cast it into the heap of hay and sawdust that lay near the foot of the ladder. Hastily throwing the box-covers and cases on the pile, he rushed up the steps into the brig, and closed the scuttle. He was intensely excited, and Bark was really terrified at what he considered the insane rashness of his associate in crime. But there was no time for further talk; for Marline appeared at this moment, and unlocked the door of the brig.
“Come, my hearties, you must go on shore for an hour to have the smallpox smoked out of you; and I wish they could smoke out some of the mischief that’s in you at the same time,” said the adult boatswain. “Come, and bear a hand lively, for all hands are in boats by this time.”