"Come on," shouted Bulger, waving his hook. "Bill Bulger en't the man to
sheer off from a couple of landlubbers."

As with his mates in line he steadily advanced, the two gentlemen, their
lips set, their eyes fixed on the assailants, their rapiers pointed,
backed slowly up the street. The noise had brought clerks and merchants
to the doors; someone sprang a rattle; there were cries for the watchmen;
but no one actively interfered.

Meanwhile Desmond had regained his senses, and, still feeling somewhat
dizzy, had sat down upon a doorstep, wondering not a little at the
pursuit and flight of Diggle and the opportune arrival of the sailors.
Everything had happened very rapidly; scarcely two minutes had elapsed
since the first onset.

He was still resting when there was a sudden change in the quality of the
shouts up street. Hitherto they had been boisterous rallying cries; now
they were unmistakably hearty British cheers, expressing nothing but
approval and admiration. And they came not merely from the throats of the
sailors, but from the now considerable crowd that filled the street. A
few moments afterwards he saw the throng part, and through it Bulger
marching at the head of his mates, singing lustily. They came opposite to
the step on which he sat, and Bulger caught sight of him.

"Blest if it en't our supercargo!" he cried, stopping short.

A shout of laughter broke from the sailors. One of them struck up a song.

"Oho! we says goodby,
But never pipes our eye,