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Updated: May 24, 2025
Tom Fillot had no such dread, and after trying to make out whether they were watched, he quietly thrust an arm beneath the lid of the locker and drew out a tin of powder, which he carried across, and placed with the neck opened and on its side, so that a little of the contents ran out close by the cabin entrance.
It was the skipper who fired, and then went down with a fierce cry of rage, for Tom Fillot had rushed at him, striking him in violent collision, the weight of the running sailor being sufficient to send him flying.
"Right, even if we could manage that; and the survivors would be thrown back, worse off than we are now." "That's a true word, sir." "Well, you know what happened trying the cabin window?" "Yes, sir, I just do," said Tom, dolefully. "I thought Fillot AB's kit was for sale aboard the Naughtylass." "Then the door the hatch; what about that?" "Ah," said Tom, thoughtfully, "what about that?"
But they soon subsided into an apathetic state, and watched. "Hurt much, Tom Fillot?" said Mark, as soon as excitement would let him speak. "Well, sir, tidy tidy. I was just thinking about some of our chaps aboard the Naughtylass, growling and grumbling at her for being an unlucky ship, and no fighting to be had. They wouldn't find fault if they was out here, sir, eh?"
"We'll get too far out for 'em to nab us again," the skipper said, as he glanced shoreward through his night-glass, where the coast lay some seven or eight miles away. In profound ignorance of all this, Mark slept on till he was awakened by Tom Fillot, and started up, staring and wondering, till he recalled that which was before him.
"Now, you two, try and understand plain English. Answer to your names. Soup." There was no reply. "Taters." Still no reply. "Not here?" said Mark, anxiously. "Don't sabbee, p'raps, sir. I'll try again." "Taters." No answer. "Soup." No reply. "Soup and Taters." "Aren't aboard," growled several voices in chorus. "I'm 'fraid the Soup and Taters is done, sir," said Tom Fillot in a low voice.
These appeared to understand what was on the way, looking earnestly at the distant vessel, and then taking the positions assigned to them when all was ready, and Tom Fillot burst into a hearty laugh. "They'll walk into the trap beautiful, sir, see if they don't," he said. "Lor', sir, if you only could make yourself look like the Yankee skipper, we should be lovely."
Tom Fillot was forrard seeing to the watch, and that them blacks was them blacks was them blacks was " "Well, what?" cried Mark, angrily. "What do you mean, man?" "Dunno, sir dunno, I'm sure," said the coxswain, humbly. "It's my head won't go proper, sir.
"All right, sir," growled a voice. "I was a bit confoosed like! Oh, my head!" "Ay, mate," said Tom Fillot, "and it's oh, my, all our heads. Beg pardon, sir, for the liberty, but if you'd do it for me, I should know the worst, and I could get on then. I'm all nohow just now, and it worries me." "Do what, Tom?" said Mark.
"Ready it is, sir. If I see a chance, shall I ketch hold?" "Hist!" "What's the matter, sir?" "Talk lower. What's that? It may be enemies." "Phew!" whistled Tom Fillot, softly. "It was behind me. I didn't see that. There, you have it."
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