“Hallo! Briant!” exclaimed Glynn.
A very loud snore was the reply.
“Briant! Phil Briant, I say; hallo! Phil!” shouted Glynn.
“Arrah! howld yer noise will ye,” muttered the still sleeping man—“sno—o—o—o—re!”
“A fall! a fall!—all hands ahoy! tumble up there, tumble up!” shouted Glynn, in the nautical tones which he well knew would have their effect upon his comrade.
He was right. They had more than their usual effect on him. The instant he heard them, Phil Briant shouted— “Ay, ay, sir!” and, throwing his legs over the side of what he supposed to be his hammock, he came down bodily on what he supposed to be the deck with a whack that caused him to utter an involuntary but tremendous howl.
“Oh! och! oh! murther! oh whirra!” he cried, as he lay half-stunned. “Oh, it’s kilt I am entirely—dead as mutton at last, an’ no mistake. Sure I might have knowd it—och! worse luck! Didn’t yer poor owld mother tell ye, Phil, that ye’d come to a bad end—she did—”
“Are ye badly hurt?” said Glynn, stooping over his friend in real alarm.
At the sound of his voice Briant ceased his wails, rose into a sitting posture, shaded his eyes with his hand (a most unnecessary proceeding under the circumstances), and stared at him.
“It’s me, Phil; all right, and Ailie. We’ve escaped, and got safe back again.”