“I don’t know; perhaps the stewards are all on deck.”
“No: he always lets most of his men go on shore when we are in port. I don’t believe there is more than one of them on board,” continued Bill, with no little excitement in his manner.
“I heard some one walking on deck since the boats went off. It may have been Salter; but I am sure he is not alone on board.”
“No matter, if there are only two or three left. Now is our time, Bark!” whispered Bill Stout.
“We may be burnt up in the vessel: we are locked into the brig,” suggested Bark.
“No danger of that. When the fire breaks out, Salter will unlock the door of the cage. If he don’t we can break it down.”
“What then?” queried Bark. “Every boat belonging to the vessel is gone, and we might get singed in the scrape.”
“Nonsense, Bark! At the worst we could swim ashore to that old light-house.”
“Well, what are we going to do then? We wear the uniform of the fleet, and we shall be known wherever we go,” added the more prudent Bark.