Page:The Dark Frigate (Hawes).djvu/129

Barwick was stationed by the ladder to the forecastle, where he stood like a pigeon cock with his head haughtily in the air and his chest thrust out; and the little round apple of a man, Harry Malcolm, who had broken in upon Martin the night before, bearing now a new and bloody gash across his forehead, was prowling among the guns and tapping the breech rings with a knowing air.

The Old One from the quarter-deck looked down at the new comer.

"Rab took the steel,” the fellow said.

“Rab!” the Old One cried. “Not Rab, you say?”

“Yea, he struck first but the master wore an iron shirt which turned the point and he was then at him with his sword.”

“We have lost nine good men by this devil-begotten storm, but of them all Rab is the one I am most loath to see go to the sharks.” The Old One paced the deck a while and the others talked in undertones. ‘‘Yea, Martin,” he called at last, ‘‘nine good men. But we have got us a ship and I have great hopes of our boatswain, who may yet make us two of Rab. At all events, my bullies, we must lay us a new course, for I have no liking of these northern fisheries. Hark! They are pounding on the hatch.”

The sound of knocking and a muffled calling came from the main hatch, whereat the men on deck looked at one another and some of them smiled.

“It were well —” the little round man began. He glaneed at the huddled bodies and shrugged.

“True, true!” the Old One replied, for he needed no words to complete the meaning. ‘‘You men of the Rose of Devon, heave them into the sea."