The rest of the crew laughed in chorus, till the boatswain sternly bade them give way.

"I doubt it," he said in a low voice to me. "I should say that the captain will do a little more to make her less ship-shape, ready for the next lot."

"But you don't think there are any more pirates, do you?"

"More!" he said, looking at me in surprise. "Why, my lad, the coast swarms with them. We never hear a hundredth part of the attacks they make. It is not only European vessels they seize, but anything that comes in their way. It strikes me, Mr Herrick, that we have only just begun what may turn out a very successful cruise."

Ten minutes later we were nearing the _Teaser_, and I saw the reason why we could not see either of the other boats. They were swinging to the davits, and we were therefore the last.

Just then Mr Reardon hailed us.

"How many men hurt?" he shouted between his hands.

"Only one, sir; Barr--c.o.xswain."

"Badly?"

"Oh no, sir," shouted the sufferer. "Bit of a scrat on the back."

"How many prisoners?"

"Four, sir."

Then we were alongside, the boat was run up, and, after our wounded man had been lifted out, I stepped on board, eager to know the result of the action on the part of the other boats, and to learn this I went below, and found Barkins alone.

"Well," I cried, "how many prisoners?"

"Round dozen," he cried.

"Any one hurt?"

"Round dozen."

"I know, twelve prisoners," I said impatiently. "I asked you how many were hurt."

"And I told you, stupid," he replied, "a round dozen."

"What! a man wounded for every prisoner?"

"That's it; and we shouldn't have taken any, the beggars were game for fighting to the last, if Mr Brooke hadn't given the word for them to be knocked on the head first with the thick end of the oars."

"To stun them?"

"Yes; and our lads got so savage after seeing their mates stabbed when trying to save the brutes' lives, that they hit as hard as they could.

They killed two of 'em, or we should have had fourteen."

"How horrid!"

"Horrid? Why, I enjoyed it," said my messmate. "When I saw poor old Blacksmith--"

"What!" I cried excitedly, "he isn't hurt?"

"Not hurt? why, one yellow-faced savage, when poor old Smithy held out his hand to pull him aboard, took hold of his wrist, and then reached up and stuck his knife right through the poor old chap's arm, and left it there."

"Poor old Smithy!" I cried huskily, and a choking sensation rose in my throat. "I must go and see him."

"No, you mustn't. I've just been, and they sent me away."

"But where is he?"

"Doctor's got him, and been mending him up. He has gone to sleep now."

"Was he very bad?"

"Stick a stocking-needle through your arm, and then square it, cube it, add decimal nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, and then see how you feel."

"Poor old boy!" I said; "I am sorry."

"Well, so am I," said Barkins sourly; "but I don't keep on howling."

"Did they take the blackguard prisoner?"

"Well, they did, and hauled him aboard, but he was no good, and they pitched him overboard again."

"Why?" I said wonderingly.

"Why! because he was dead. Bob Saunders, that red-haired chap, was in the stern-sheets helping to catch the beggars with hitches, and as soon as he saw the big yellow-faced wretch stick his knife into poor old Blacksmith, he let drive at the brute with the boat-hook, twisted it in his frock, and held him under water. He didn't mean to, but he was savage at what he had seen, for the lads like Smithy, and he held the beggar under water too long."

I shuddered, and thought of the man being bayoneted from our boat, and Mr Grey's narrow escape.

"Your fellows behaved better, I s'pose?" said Barkins.

"Not a bit," I said. "We've got a man stabbed just in the same way--"

and I told him of our adventures.

"They're nice ones," said Barkins sourly. "I don't think our chaps will want to take many prisoners next time. But I say, what a crusher for them--all four junks, and not a man to go back and tell the tale."

"It's glorious," I cried, forgetting the horrors in our triumph.

"For you," said Barkins sourly.

"Why for me? You and poor old Smith did your part. Don't be so jolly envious."

"Envious? Come, I like that," he cried. "If you felt as if something red-hot was being stuck in your leg you'd feel envious too. You're the luckiest beggar that ever was, and never get hurt or anything."

"No more do you," I said, laughing.

"Oh, don't I? What do you call that, then?" he cried, swinging his legs round, for he was sitting with one of them under the table.