“It’s a letter pinned to my pillow,” said the cook in trembling tones, as he held it to the lamp.
“Well, we don’t want to ’ear it,” said Jem. “Shut up, d’ye hear?”
But there was that in the cook’s manner which awed him.
“Dear cook,” he read feverishly, “I have made an infernal machine with clockwork, and hid it in the hold near the gunpowder when we were at Fairhaven. I think it will go off between ten and eleven to-night, but I am not quite sure about the time. Don’t tell those other beasts, but jump overboard and swim ashore. I have taken the boat I would have taken you too, but you told me you swam seven miles once, so you can eas—”
The reading came to an abrupt termination as his listeners sprang out of their bunks, and, bolting on dock, burst wildly into the cabin, and breathlessly reeled off the heads of the letter to its astonished occupants.
“Stuck a wot in the hold?” gasped the skipper.
“Infernal machine,” said the mate; “one of them things wot you blow up the ’Ouses of Parliament with.”
“Wot’s the time now?” interrogated Jem anxiously.
“’Bout ha’-past ten,” said the cook trembling. “Let’s give ’em a hail ashore.”
They leaned over the side, and sent a mighty shout across the water. Most of Lowport had gone to bed, but the windows in the inn were bright, and lights showed in the upper windows of two or three of the cottages.