screamed the boatswain, who in the excess of his merriment had to hold on by the ladder to save himself from falling. “He acts it all to the life, that's sartin!”
Freddy recollected himself and forced a grim smile. “Shut the devils up again,” said he.
“This yere's the slow match,” said the boatswain, pointing to the end of a piece of yarn which lay on the lower deck. “It's in beautiful order, and burns two minutes.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said Freddy, “that is the slow match. Quite right. Of course the other end communicates with—“
“With an open barrel of powder in the magazine, 'cordin' to your own orders, cap'en.”
“Quite correct. And now let me see whether you fully understand my instructions. When are you to set light to it?”
“As soon as the Britisher's first shot strikes our hull. Then up we goes, and there's an end of the Flying Clam, crew, cargo, cap'en and all.”
“Admirable!” said Freddy, white with terror, “only—I've been thinking that—perhaps on the whole there is something rather contemptible, not to say downright cowardly, in this summary and comparatively painless way of evading the punishment our captors may have in store for us.”
“Wot!” yelled the boatswain.
“Why, reflect,” said Freddy. “If we blow ourselves up they may say that we do so because we are afraid of them! The thought is unendurable! No, no—let us evince a truer and a nobler courage than that
