“And what if we reject your precious first, second, third, and fourth piece of infernal impudence?”
“Then we shall take what we want without asking,” replied Callan with cool effrontery. “You may take an hour to decide.—Come, boys.”
The men gave another cheer, and retired singing “Rule, Britannia.” They left, however, a strongly-armed picket to cut off access from the quarter-deck to the rest of the ship.
The night was still dead calm, and the Zebra lay like a log in the sea, her sails drooping, and her head swinging idly with the tide.
“Well?” inquired one or two, looking at Lieutenant Adrian.
“Well?” retorted that officer. “If you want to know what I intend to do, I mean to drink a bottle of port below. There is but one answer to give, and nothing to discuss. So you may fetch me in an hour.”
“Shall we tell the captain?” asked Mr Felton, the second lieutenant, who, if he had only been superior to Mr Adrian, would have seen us through the crisis with more credit than we were likely to get.
“Certainly not,” said the doctor authoritatively. “The consultation in his cabin yesterday was a fatal mistake as far as he is concerned. Let him at least die in peace now.”
“How many loyal men do we muster, Mr Gallagher?” said Mr Felton.
“Twenty-five, all told, sir,” replied I. “We cannot count on any of the men for certain, though one or two may join us if it comes to a fight.”