"Ouch!" yelled the Irish boy, and discharged his musket wildly into the darkness.
"That was only a bucket of paint," said Tom. "Don't be so free with your bullets."
"Faith, an' I thought it was all killed we were," responded Tim, rather ashamed of his sudden alarm.
"Not yet," replied the mate, with a grim attempt at humor.
"Cheer up," said Tom, in the same strain. "The worst is yet to come."
It was evident to the four on the after deck that the mutineers were as yet without guns, for they would have picked off the boys where they stood against the sky line, had they been able.
But the battle was not won yet, in fact it had hardly begun. While the boys and the mate were gazing through the darkness at the knot of men near the forecastle, three sailors suddenly dashed from behind the main mast, and rushed for Tim's position near the ladder. He and the mate fired in unison at them, and evidently wounded one of their number, for with a howl of pain from the foremost, the three scuttled back toward the bow.
"That's good, Tim," called Tom. "We'll hold 'em all right, eh?"
"Don't want 'em near enough to hold," replied Tim.
"That's painful," commented the mate, at Tim's attempted jest.