Joe Westlake then called a
council. Robins was at the tiller; Plum and Tuck came aft, and the
four debated at the helm.
"I've heerd," said old Joe, "of this tailor afore. His name's Sloper.
I've never larnt why he mounted them guns, or where the little rooting
hog got his pluck from to fire 'em. But there can be no shadder of a
doubt, mates, that his object in firing to-day was to insult that
there flag."
He pointed with an immensely square forefinger to the masthead.
"Ne'er a shadder," said Plum.
"For why," continued old Joe, "did the smothered rag of a chap wait
for us to come right abreast afore firing?"
"Ah! that's it, ye see," exclaimed Bob Robins. "There ye've hit it,
Mr. Westlake."
"The little faggot's game," old Joe went on, "is as clear as mud in a
wineglass. He fires with blank cartridge; like as he'd say 'What'll
_you_ do?' What did he want? That we should retarn his civility with
grape? Of course; that if it should come to a difficulty he'd have the
law on his side. Not being able to aggravate us into shotting our
guns, what must he turn to and do but load with stone--and look at
that flag! Riddled, mates. I'll not speak of it as spiled, though a
prettier and a better bit of bunting was never mastheaded.
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