“I guess that’s right,” agreed Clif, finally recovering from his amazement at Toggles’ clever trick. “We have work to do, and lots of it. Let’s release poor Nanny first. He must be half dead by this time.”
He bent over and quickly freed the little lad, who had remained forgotten in one corner of the passage. Straightening up, Clif continued:
“I’ve got a little scheme, but it must be worked at once. This fellow here,” he touched Crane with his foot, “intended to paint us a rosy red and adorn our respective faces with oakum whiskers.”
“He did, eh,” growled Joy. “If I wasn’t a peaceable man by nature I’d adorn his mug with lumps and bruises.”
“He! he!” giggled Trolley.
“My plan is even better than that,” resumed Clif. “What’s the matter with giving him a dose of his own medicine?”
“Paint him red?” queried Toggles, delightedly.
“Sure thing.”
“Hurray!” cheered Nanny, but in a dutifully low voice. “That’s out of sight. And we’ll turn him loose on the quarter-deck.”
“Yes; with whiskers.”