“Keep your shirts on, you hardshells! They won’t bite—nor none o’ you ain’t got to go aloft to put ’em out. There’s one sure thing about them lights—they won’t set the rigging afire.”
“Get up and take hold of this wheel, Bob,” I exclaimed, “or I’ll yell for help. I can’t handle her proper if she plunges again.”
He got up shakingly and took hold. When the sea was sucked away from the bow of the Gullwing next time we held her on her course. But my companion was still frightened and looked at the glowing lights askance.
“Holding your own there at the wheel, boys?” demanded Mr. Barney.
“Aye, aye, sir!” I replied, but Bob didn’t even whisper.
Suddenly the last light disappeared—as suddenly as the first had appeared—and immediately there was a loud explosion over our heads and Mr. Barney pitched down the ladder to the deck. Several of the other men were flung to the deck, too, and Bob gave another frightened yell and started forward on a dead run.
He collided with Captain Bowditch, who had just shot up through the companionway.
“What’s this, you swab?” yelled the skipper, grabbing Bob by the collar with one hand and seizing a rope with the other, as the ship staggered again. “What d’ye mean?”
Then he saw Mr. Barney just scrambling to his feet.
“What’s this mutinous swab been doing, sir?” added the captain.