Chapter Six.

Chapter Six.On two sides.Fitz Burnett slept on during the greatest part of that day and most of the next; each time that he woke up he seemed better, and ready for the food that he had missed for so long and which was now so carefully prepared for him.Very little had been said; the skipper’s son attended upon him assiduously, and was ready to enter into conversation, but his advances were met so shortly and snappishly, that he soon contented himself with playing the nurse seriously, while the invalid frowned and kept his eyes fixed upon the sea through the open cabin-window, rarely glancing at his attendant at all.It was on the fourth day after the lad had recovered his senses and learned the truth of his position, that Poole made a remark about this change in their passenger to his father, who had come into the cabin to find the midshipman fast asleep.“Is it right, father, that he should sleep so much?” said the lad.“Certainly. He’s getting on fast. Let him sleep as much as he can. His wound is growing together again as quickly as it can. Can’t you see how much better he is?”“Well, I thought I could, dad,” was the reply; “but every now and then I think he’s getting worse.”“Eh? What makes you think that, lad? Does he begin to mope for his liberty?”“I dare say he does, dad. It’s only natural; but that isn’t what I meant. What I thought was that though he seemed rather nice at first, he keeps on growing more and more disagreeable. He treats me sometimes just as if I were a dog.”“Well, you always were a precious young puppy, Poole,” said the skipper, with a twinkle of the eye.—“Ah! No impudence now! If you dare to say that it’s no wonder when I am such a rough old sea-dog, I’ll throw something at you.”“Then it won’t be thrown,” said the lad, laughing. “But really, father, he is so stuck up and consequential sometimes, ordering me about, and satisfied with nothing I do, that it makes me feel peppery and ready to tell him that if he isn’t satisfied he’d better do the things himself.”“Bah! Don’t take any notice of him, boy. It’s all a good sign, and means he’s getting well fast.”“Well, it’s not a very pleasant way of showing it, father.”“No, my boy, no; but we can’t very well alter what is. Fellows who have been ill, and wounded men when they are taking a right turn, are weak, irritable, and dissatisfied. I think you’ll find him all right by and by. Take it all calmly. He’s got something to suffer, poor fellow, both mentally and from that hurt upon his head. Well, I’ll go back on deck. I did come down to examine and dress his sconce again, but I’ll leave that till another time.”He had hardly spoken before Fitz opened his eyes with a start, saw who was present, and turned pettishly away.“Oh, it’s you, doctor, is it?” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t be always coming in here and bothering and waking me up. What do you want now?”“I was only coming to bathe and re-plaster your head, squire,” replied the bluff skipper good-humouredly.Fitz gave himself an angry snatch round, and fixed his eyes frowningly upon the speaker.“Look here,” he said, “let’s have no more of that, if you please. Have the goodness to keep your place, sir. If you don’t know that you have a gentleman on board, please to learn it now, and have the goodness to be off and take that clumsy oaf with you. I want to sleep.”“Certainly,” said the skipper quietly, and his son gave him a wondering look. “But as I am here I may as well see to your head. It is quite time it was done again.”“Look here,” cried Fitz, “am I to speak again? I told you to go. When I want my head bandaged again I will send you word.”“All right, my lad,” said the skipper good-humouredly.“All right,what?” cried Fitz. “Will you have the goodness to keep this familiar way of speaking to people of your own class!”“Oh, certainly,” said the skipper. “Very well, then; send for me when you feel disposed to have it dressed; and I’ll tell you what, you can let Poole wait till the cool of the evening, and he can bathe it and do it then.”“Bah!” cried the lad angrily. “Is it likely I am going to trust myself in his clumsy hands? There, stop and do it now, as I am awake. Here, stop, get some fresh cool water and hold the basin. Pish! I mean that nasty tin-bowl.”Poole got what was necessary without a word, and then stood by while the injury was carefully bathed and bandaged, the patient not uttering a single word of thanks, but submitting with the worst of graces, and just giving his doctor a condescending nod when with a word of congratulation the latter left the cabin.There was profound silence then, saving a click or two and a rustle as Poole put the various things away, Fitz lying back on his pillow and watching him the while, till at last he spoke, in an exacerbating way—“Here, you sir, was that doctor, skipper, or whatever he calls himself, trained before he came to sea?”Poole flushed and remained silent.“Did you hear what I said, boy?” cried Fitz.“Yes,” was the short reply, resentfully given.“Yes,sir. Impudent scoundrel! Do you know whom you are addressing?Sirto an officer in Her Majesty’s service, whatever his rank.”“Oh, yes, I know whom I am talking to.”“Yes,sir, you oaf! Where are your manners? Is that fellow a surgeon?”“No; he is captain of this ship.”“Ship! Captain!” sneered the boy, in a contemptuous tone which made his listener writhe. “Why, it’s a trading schooner, isn’t it?”Poole was about to speak out sharply, when a glance at the helpless condition of the speaker disarmed him, and he said quietly—“Oh, yes, of course it’s a trading schooner, but it was originally a gentleman’s yacht, and sails like one.”“Indeed!” said the boy sneeringly. “And pray whose is it?”Poole looked at him open-eyed as if expecting to see him suffering from a little deliriousness again; but as no sign was visible he merely said quietly—“My father’s.”“And pray who’s your father?”Poole looked at him again, still in doubt.“That is.”“Oh!”There was silence for a few moments, before Fitz turned himself wearily and said in a careless, off-hand tone—“And what’s the name of the craft?”“TheSilver Teal.”“Silver Eel—eh? What a ridiculously slippery name for a boat!”“Silver Teal,” said Poole emphatically.“Silver Grandmother! A nice set you must be to give your gimcrack craft such a name as that! But you may take my word for it that as soon as ever you are caught in your slippery eel you will all either be hung or go to penal servitude for life—though perhaps you’ll be let off, as you are nothing better than a boy.”“Oh yes, I am only a boy,” said Poole, rather bitterly; “but theSilver Teal, or Silver Eel as you call it, has to be caught yet. Your people did not make a very grand affair of it the other night.”“Pooh! That’s only because one of our stupid fellows who had been on the watch the night before dropped to sleep. They’ll soon have you. You’ll have theTonansthundering on your heels before you know where you are. I am expecting to hear her guns every minute.”“That’s quite possible,” said Poole quietly; “but our little schooner will take some catching, I can tell you.”“So you think,” said Fitz, “but you in your ignorance don’t know everything. You only sail, and what’s the use of that against steam? Just let our gunboat be after you in a calm, and then where are you going to be?”“I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s worth while to argue about it when we are out here in mid-ocean, and I suppose your gunboat is hanging about somewhere off the port of Liverpool. But look here, hadn’t you better take father’s advice and not talk so much? I don’t mind what you say to me, and it doesn’t hurt a bit, but you are rather weak yet, and after all you have gone through I shouldn’t like to see you go back instead of forward. Why not have another nap?”Fitz gave a contemptuous sniff, held his tongue as if his companion in the cabin were not worthy of notice, and lay perfectly still gazing out to sea, but with his face twitching every now and then as he lay thinking with all his might about some of the last words Poole had said connected with the possibility of the gunboat being so far away, and he alone and helpless among these strangers, his spirits sank. How was it all going to end? he thought. What a position to be in! The skipper had said something about putting him aboard some vessel, or ashore;—but how or when? The position seemed hopeless in the extreme, and the poor weak lad thought and thought till his tired brain began to grow dizzy and ache violently, when kindly Nature led him to the temporary way out of the weary trouble which tortured him, and he fell fast asleep.

Fitz Burnett slept on during the greatest part of that day and most of the next; each time that he woke up he seemed better, and ready for the food that he had missed for so long and which was now so carefully prepared for him.

Very little had been said; the skipper’s son attended upon him assiduously, and was ready to enter into conversation, but his advances were met so shortly and snappishly, that he soon contented himself with playing the nurse seriously, while the invalid frowned and kept his eyes fixed upon the sea through the open cabin-window, rarely glancing at his attendant at all.

It was on the fourth day after the lad had recovered his senses and learned the truth of his position, that Poole made a remark about this change in their passenger to his father, who had come into the cabin to find the midshipman fast asleep.

“Is it right, father, that he should sleep so much?” said the lad.

“Certainly. He’s getting on fast. Let him sleep as much as he can. His wound is growing together again as quickly as it can. Can’t you see how much better he is?”

“Well, I thought I could, dad,” was the reply; “but every now and then I think he’s getting worse.”

“Eh? What makes you think that, lad? Does he begin to mope for his liberty?”

“I dare say he does, dad. It’s only natural; but that isn’t what I meant. What I thought was that though he seemed rather nice at first, he keeps on growing more and more disagreeable. He treats me sometimes just as if I were a dog.”

“Well, you always were a precious young puppy, Poole,” said the skipper, with a twinkle of the eye.—“Ah! No impudence now! If you dare to say that it’s no wonder when I am such a rough old sea-dog, I’ll throw something at you.”

“Then it won’t be thrown,” said the lad, laughing. “But really, father, he is so stuck up and consequential sometimes, ordering me about, and satisfied with nothing I do, that it makes me feel peppery and ready to tell him that if he isn’t satisfied he’d better do the things himself.”

“Bah! Don’t take any notice of him, boy. It’s all a good sign, and means he’s getting well fast.”

“Well, it’s not a very pleasant way of showing it, father.”

“No, my boy, no; but we can’t very well alter what is. Fellows who have been ill, and wounded men when they are taking a right turn, are weak, irritable, and dissatisfied. I think you’ll find him all right by and by. Take it all calmly. He’s got something to suffer, poor fellow, both mentally and from that hurt upon his head. Well, I’ll go back on deck. I did come down to examine and dress his sconce again, but I’ll leave that till another time.”

He had hardly spoken before Fitz opened his eyes with a start, saw who was present, and turned pettishly away.

“Oh, it’s you, doctor, is it?” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t be always coming in here and bothering and waking me up. What do you want now?”

“I was only coming to bathe and re-plaster your head, squire,” replied the bluff skipper good-humouredly.

Fitz gave himself an angry snatch round, and fixed his eyes frowningly upon the speaker.

“Look here,” he said, “let’s have no more of that, if you please. Have the goodness to keep your place, sir. If you don’t know that you have a gentleman on board, please to learn it now, and have the goodness to be off and take that clumsy oaf with you. I want to sleep.”

“Certainly,” said the skipper quietly, and his son gave him a wondering look. “But as I am here I may as well see to your head. It is quite time it was done again.”

“Look here,” cried Fitz, “am I to speak again? I told you to go. When I want my head bandaged again I will send you word.”

“All right, my lad,” said the skipper good-humouredly.

“All right,what?” cried Fitz. “Will you have the goodness to keep this familiar way of speaking to people of your own class!”

“Oh, certainly,” said the skipper. “Very well, then; send for me when you feel disposed to have it dressed; and I’ll tell you what, you can let Poole wait till the cool of the evening, and he can bathe it and do it then.”

“Bah!” cried the lad angrily. “Is it likely I am going to trust myself in his clumsy hands? There, stop and do it now, as I am awake. Here, stop, get some fresh cool water and hold the basin. Pish! I mean that nasty tin-bowl.”

Poole got what was necessary without a word, and then stood by while the injury was carefully bathed and bandaged, the patient not uttering a single word of thanks, but submitting with the worst of graces, and just giving his doctor a condescending nod when with a word of congratulation the latter left the cabin.

There was profound silence then, saving a click or two and a rustle as Poole put the various things away, Fitz lying back on his pillow and watching him the while, till at last he spoke, in an exacerbating way—

“Here, you sir, was that doctor, skipper, or whatever he calls himself, trained before he came to sea?”

Poole flushed and remained silent.

“Did you hear what I said, boy?” cried Fitz.

“Yes,” was the short reply, resentfully given.

“Yes,sir. Impudent scoundrel! Do you know whom you are addressing?Sirto an officer in Her Majesty’s service, whatever his rank.”

“Oh, yes, I know whom I am talking to.”

“Yes,sir, you oaf! Where are your manners? Is that fellow a surgeon?”

“No; he is captain of this ship.”

“Ship! Captain!” sneered the boy, in a contemptuous tone which made his listener writhe. “Why, it’s a trading schooner, isn’t it?”

Poole was about to speak out sharply, when a glance at the helpless condition of the speaker disarmed him, and he said quietly—

“Oh, yes, of course it’s a trading schooner, but it was originally a gentleman’s yacht, and sails like one.”

“Indeed!” said the boy sneeringly. “And pray whose is it?”

Poole looked at him open-eyed as if expecting to see him suffering from a little deliriousness again; but as no sign was visible he merely said quietly—

“My father’s.”

“And pray who’s your father?”

Poole looked at him again, still in doubt.

“That is.”

“Oh!”

There was silence for a few moments, before Fitz turned himself wearily and said in a careless, off-hand tone—

“And what’s the name of the craft?”

“TheSilver Teal.”

“Silver Eel—eh? What a ridiculously slippery name for a boat!”

“Silver Teal,” said Poole emphatically.

“Silver Grandmother! A nice set you must be to give your gimcrack craft such a name as that! But you may take my word for it that as soon as ever you are caught in your slippery eel you will all either be hung or go to penal servitude for life—though perhaps you’ll be let off, as you are nothing better than a boy.”

“Oh yes, I am only a boy,” said Poole, rather bitterly; “but theSilver Teal, or Silver Eel as you call it, has to be caught yet. Your people did not make a very grand affair of it the other night.”

“Pooh! That’s only because one of our stupid fellows who had been on the watch the night before dropped to sleep. They’ll soon have you. You’ll have theTonansthundering on your heels before you know where you are. I am expecting to hear her guns every minute.”

“That’s quite possible,” said Poole quietly; “but our little schooner will take some catching, I can tell you.”

“So you think,” said Fitz, “but you in your ignorance don’t know everything. You only sail, and what’s the use of that against steam? Just let our gunboat be after you in a calm, and then where are you going to be?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s worth while to argue about it when we are out here in mid-ocean, and I suppose your gunboat is hanging about somewhere off the port of Liverpool. But look here, hadn’t you better take father’s advice and not talk so much? I don’t mind what you say to me, and it doesn’t hurt a bit, but you are rather weak yet, and after all you have gone through I shouldn’t like to see you go back instead of forward. Why not have another nap?”

Fitz gave a contemptuous sniff, held his tongue as if his companion in the cabin were not worthy of notice, and lay perfectly still gazing out to sea, but with his face twitching every now and then as he lay thinking with all his might about some of the last words Poole had said connected with the possibility of the gunboat being so far away, and he alone and helpless among these strangers, his spirits sank. How was it all going to end? he thought. What a position to be in! The skipper had said something about putting him aboard some vessel, or ashore;—but how or when? The position seemed hopeless in the extreme, and the poor weak lad thought and thought till his tired brain began to grow dizzy and ache violently, when kindly Nature led him to the temporary way out of the weary trouble which tortured him, and he fell fast asleep.

Chapter Seven.Getting the worst of it.Another morning passed, and the schooner was once more sailing away through the beautiful calm blue see, heaving in long slow rollers which seemed to be doing their best to rock the injured prisoner back to a state of health.He had breakfasted and been dressed by his sea-going attendant, and was so much better that he was more irritable than usual, while the skipper’s son met all his impatient remarks without the slightest resentment.The result was that the sick middy in his approach to convalescence was in that state called by Irish folk “spoiling for a fight,” and the more patient Poole showed himself, the more the boy began to play the lord.It was not led up to in any way, but came out in the way of aggravation, and sounded so childish on this particular occasion that Poole turned his head and crossed to the cabin-window to look out, so that Fitz should not see him smile.“I have been thinking,” he said, with his back to the boy’s berth, “that while we are sailing along here so gently, I might get some of old Butters’ tackle.”“Who’s Butters?” said Fitz shortly.“Our bo’sun.”“But what do you mean by his tackle? You don’t suppose that I am going to do any hoisting, or anything of that sort, do you?”“No, no; fishing-tackle. I’d bait the hooks and throw out the line, and you could fish. You’d feel them tug, and could haul in, and I’d take them off the hook?”“What fish would they be?” cried the boy, quite eagerly, and with his eyes brightening at the idea.“Bonito or albicore.”“What are they?”“Ah, you have never been in the tropics, I suppose?”“Never mind where I’ve been,” snapped out the boy. “I asked you what fish those were.”“Something like big mackerel,” replied Poole quietly, “and wonderfully strong. You would enjoy catching them.”The way in which these words were spoken touched the midshipman’s dignity.“Hang his impudence!” Fitz thought. “Patronising me like that!”“Shall I go and ask him for some tackle?”“No,” was the snappish reply. “I don’t want to fish. I have other things on my mind. I have been thinking about this a good deal, young man, and I am not going to put up with any of your insolence. I am an officer in Her Majesty’s service, and when one is placed in a position like this, without a superior officer over one, it is my duty to take the command; and if I did as I should do, I ought to give orders to ’bout ship and make sail at once for the nearest port.”“That’s quite right; and why don’t you?”“Well—er—I—er—that is—”“Here, I say, old chap, don’t be so cocky. What’s the good of making a windbag of yourself? I’ve only got to prick you, and where are you then? You don’t think you are going to frighten my dad with bluster, do you?”“Blus-ter, sir?”“Yes, b-l-u-s-t-e-r. You can’t call it anything else. I know how you feel. Humbled like at being caught like this. I’m sorry for you.”“Sorry! Bah!”“Well, I am, really; but, to tell the truth, I should be more sorry if you could get away. It’s rather jolly having you here. But you are a bit grumpy this morning. Your head hurts you, doesn’t it?”“Hurts? Horrid! It is just as if somebody was trying to bore a hole in my skull with a red-hot auger.”Poole sprang up, soaked a handkerchief with water, folded it into a square patch, and laid it on the injured place, dealing as tenderly with his patient as if his fingers were those of a woman, with the result that the pain became dull and Fitz lay back in his bunk with his eyes half-closed.“Feel well enough to have a game of draughts?” said Poole, after a pause.“No; and you haven’t got a board.”“But I have got a big card that I marked out myself, and blackened some of the squares with ink.”“Where are your men?”“Hanging up in that bag.”“Let’s look.”Poole took a little canvas bag from the hook from which it hung and turned out a very decent set of black and white pieces. “You didn’t make those?”“Yes, I did.”“How did you get them so round?”“Oh, I didn’t do that. Chips lent me his little tenon-saw, and I cut them all off a roller; he helped me to finish them up with sandpaper, and told me what to soak half of them in to make them black.”The invalid began to be more and more interested in the neat set of draughtsmen. “What did you soak them in—ink?” he asked. “No; guess again.”“Oh, I can’t guess. Ship’s paint, perhaps, or tar.”“No; they wouldn’t have looked neat like that. Vitriol—sulphuric acid.”“What, had you got that sort of stuff on board the schooner?”“The governor has in his big medicine-chest.”“And did that turn them black like this?”“Yes; you just paint them over with it, and hold them to the galley fire. I suppose it burns them. They all come black like that, and you polish them up with a little beeswax, and there you are.”“Well, it was rather clever for a rough chap like you,” said Fitz grudgingly. “Can you play?”“Oh, just a little—for a rough chap like me. One has so much time out at sea.”“Oh, well, we’ll have just one game. How many pieces shall I give you?”“Oh, I should think you ought to give me half,” was the reply.“Very well,” said Fitz cavalierly; “take half. I used to be a pretty good fist at this at school. Where’s your board?”Poole thrust his hand under the cabin-table and turned a couple of buttons, setting free a stiff piece of mill-board upon which a sheet of white paper had been pasted and the squares neatly marked out and blacked.The pieces were placed, and the game began, with Fitz, after his bandage had been re-moistened, supporting himself upon his left elbow to move his pieces with his right hand, which somehow seemed to have forgotten its cunning, for with double the draughts his cool matter-of-fact adversary beat him easily.“Yes,” said Fitz, rather pettishly; “I’m a bit out of practice, and my head feels thick.”“Sure to,” said Poole, “knocked about as you were. Have some more pieces this time.”“Oh no!” said Fitz, “I can beat you easily like this if I take more care.”The pieces were set once more, and Fitz played his best, but he once more lost.“Have some more pieces this time,” said Poole.“Nonsense!” was snapped out. “I tell you I can beat you this way, and I will.”The third game was played, one which took three times as long as the last, and as he was beaten the middy let himself sink back on his pillow with a gesture full of impatience.“Yes,” he said; “I know where I went wrong there. My head burns so, and I wasn’t thinking.”“Yes, I saw where you made that slip. You might as well have given up at once.”“Oh, might I?” was snapped out.“Here, let me give that handkerchief a good soaking before we begin another.”“Yes, you didn’t half wet it last time. Don’t wring it out so much.”“All right. Why, it’s quite hot. It must have made your head so much the cooler. There, does that feel more comfortable?”“Yes, that’s better. Now make haste and set out the men.”Poole arranged the pieces, and Fitz sat up again.“Here, what have you been doing?” he cried. “You have given me two more.”“Well,” said the skipper’s son, smiling, “it’ll make us more equal.”“Don’t you holloa till you’re out of the wood,” cried Fitz haughtily, and he flicked the two extra pieces off the board. “Do you think I’m going to let you beat me? My head’s clearer now. I think I know how to play a game of draughts.”The sick boy thought so, but again his adversary proved far stronger, winning easily; and the middy dropped back on the pillow.“It isn’t fair,” he cried.“Not fair.”“You didn’t tell me you could play as well as that.”“Of course not. I wasn’t going to brag about my playing. Let’s have another game. I think we’re about equal.”“No, I’m tired now. I say,” added Fitz, after a pause, as he lay watching the draughtsmen being dropped slowly back into the bag, “don’t take any notice of what I said. I don’t want you to think me cocky and bragging. My head worries me, and it makes me feel hot and out of temper, and ready to find fault with everything. We’ll have another game some day if I’m kept here a prisoner. Perhaps I shall be able to play better then.”“To be sure you will. But it doesn’t matter which side wins. It is only meant for a game.”

Another morning passed, and the schooner was once more sailing away through the beautiful calm blue see, heaving in long slow rollers which seemed to be doing their best to rock the injured prisoner back to a state of health.

He had breakfasted and been dressed by his sea-going attendant, and was so much better that he was more irritable than usual, while the skipper’s son met all his impatient remarks without the slightest resentment.

The result was that the sick middy in his approach to convalescence was in that state called by Irish folk “spoiling for a fight,” and the more patient Poole showed himself, the more the boy began to play the lord.

It was not led up to in any way, but came out in the way of aggravation, and sounded so childish on this particular occasion that Poole turned his head and crossed to the cabin-window to look out, so that Fitz should not see him smile.

“I have been thinking,” he said, with his back to the boy’s berth, “that while we are sailing along here so gently, I might get some of old Butters’ tackle.”

“Who’s Butters?” said Fitz shortly.

“Our bo’sun.”

“But what do you mean by his tackle? You don’t suppose that I am going to do any hoisting, or anything of that sort, do you?”

“No, no; fishing-tackle. I’d bait the hooks and throw out the line, and you could fish. You’d feel them tug, and could haul in, and I’d take them off the hook?”

“What fish would they be?” cried the boy, quite eagerly, and with his eyes brightening at the idea.

“Bonito or albicore.”

“What are they?”

“Ah, you have never been in the tropics, I suppose?”

“Never mind where I’ve been,” snapped out the boy. “I asked you what fish those were.”

“Something like big mackerel,” replied Poole quietly, “and wonderfully strong. You would enjoy catching them.”

The way in which these words were spoken touched the midshipman’s dignity.

“Hang his impudence!” Fitz thought. “Patronising me like that!”

“Shall I go and ask him for some tackle?”

“No,” was the snappish reply. “I don’t want to fish. I have other things on my mind. I have been thinking about this a good deal, young man, and I am not going to put up with any of your insolence. I am an officer in Her Majesty’s service, and when one is placed in a position like this, without a superior officer over one, it is my duty to take the command; and if I did as I should do, I ought to give orders to ’bout ship and make sail at once for the nearest port.”

“That’s quite right; and why don’t you?”

“Well—er—I—er—that is—”

“Here, I say, old chap, don’t be so cocky. What’s the good of making a windbag of yourself? I’ve only got to prick you, and where are you then? You don’t think you are going to frighten my dad with bluster, do you?”

“Blus-ter, sir?”

“Yes, b-l-u-s-t-e-r. You can’t call it anything else. I know how you feel. Humbled like at being caught like this. I’m sorry for you.”

“Sorry! Bah!”

“Well, I am, really; but, to tell the truth, I should be more sorry if you could get away. It’s rather jolly having you here. But you are a bit grumpy this morning. Your head hurts you, doesn’t it?”

“Hurts? Horrid! It is just as if somebody was trying to bore a hole in my skull with a red-hot auger.”

Poole sprang up, soaked a handkerchief with water, folded it into a square patch, and laid it on the injured place, dealing as tenderly with his patient as if his fingers were those of a woman, with the result that the pain became dull and Fitz lay back in his bunk with his eyes half-closed.

“Feel well enough to have a game of draughts?” said Poole, after a pause.

“No; and you haven’t got a board.”

“But I have got a big card that I marked out myself, and blackened some of the squares with ink.”

“Where are your men?”

“Hanging up in that bag.”

“Let’s look.”

Poole took a little canvas bag from the hook from which it hung and turned out a very decent set of black and white pieces. “You didn’t make those?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How did you get them so round?”

“Oh, I didn’t do that. Chips lent me his little tenon-saw, and I cut them all off a roller; he helped me to finish them up with sandpaper, and told me what to soak half of them in to make them black.”

The invalid began to be more and more interested in the neat set of draughtsmen. “What did you soak them in—ink?” he asked. “No; guess again.”

“Oh, I can’t guess. Ship’s paint, perhaps, or tar.”

“No; they wouldn’t have looked neat like that. Vitriol—sulphuric acid.”

“What, had you got that sort of stuff on board the schooner?”

“The governor has in his big medicine-chest.”

“And did that turn them black like this?”

“Yes; you just paint them over with it, and hold them to the galley fire. I suppose it burns them. They all come black like that, and you polish them up with a little beeswax, and there you are.”

“Well, it was rather clever for a rough chap like you,” said Fitz grudgingly. “Can you play?”

“Oh, just a little—for a rough chap like me. One has so much time out at sea.”

“Oh, well, we’ll have just one game. How many pieces shall I give you?”

“Oh, I should think you ought to give me half,” was the reply.

“Very well,” said Fitz cavalierly; “take half. I used to be a pretty good fist at this at school. Where’s your board?”

Poole thrust his hand under the cabin-table and turned a couple of buttons, setting free a stiff piece of mill-board upon which a sheet of white paper had been pasted and the squares neatly marked out and blacked.

The pieces were placed, and the game began, with Fitz, after his bandage had been re-moistened, supporting himself upon his left elbow to move his pieces with his right hand, which somehow seemed to have forgotten its cunning, for with double the draughts his cool matter-of-fact adversary beat him easily.

“Yes,” said Fitz, rather pettishly; “I’m a bit out of practice, and my head feels thick.”

“Sure to,” said Poole, “knocked about as you were. Have some more pieces this time.”

“Oh no!” said Fitz, “I can beat you easily like this if I take more care.”

The pieces were set once more, and Fitz played his best, but he once more lost.

“Have some more pieces this time,” said Poole.

“Nonsense!” was snapped out. “I tell you I can beat you this way, and I will.”

The third game was played, one which took three times as long as the last, and as he was beaten the middy let himself sink back on his pillow with a gesture full of impatience.

“Yes,” he said; “I know where I went wrong there. My head burns so, and I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yes, I saw where you made that slip. You might as well have given up at once.”

“Oh, might I?” was snapped out.

“Here, let me give that handkerchief a good soaking before we begin another.”

“Yes, you didn’t half wet it last time. Don’t wring it out so much.”

“All right. Why, it’s quite hot. It must have made your head so much the cooler. There, does that feel more comfortable?”

“Yes, that’s better. Now make haste and set out the men.”

Poole arranged the pieces, and Fitz sat up again.

“Here, what have you been doing?” he cried. “You have given me two more.”

“Well,” said the skipper’s son, smiling, “it’ll make us more equal.”

“Don’t you holloa till you’re out of the wood,” cried Fitz haughtily, and he flicked the two extra pieces off the board. “Do you think I’m going to let you beat me? My head’s clearer now. I think I know how to play a game of draughts.”

The sick boy thought so, but again his adversary proved far stronger, winning easily; and the middy dropped back on the pillow.

“It isn’t fair,” he cried.

“Not fair.”

“You didn’t tell me you could play as well as that.”

“Of course not. I wasn’t going to brag about my playing. Let’s have another game. I think we’re about equal.”

“No, I’m tired now. I say,” added Fitz, after a pause, as he lay watching the draughtsmen being dropped slowly back into the bag, “don’t take any notice of what I said. I don’t want you to think me cocky and bragging. My head worries me, and it makes me feel hot and out of temper, and ready to find fault with everything. We’ll have another game some day if I’m kept here a prisoner. Perhaps I shall be able to play better then.”

“To be sure you will. But it doesn’t matter which side wins. It is only meant for a game.”

Chapter Eight.A basin of soup.Fitz had just finished his semi-apology when the fastening of the door clicked softly; it was pushed, and a peculiar-looking, shaggy head was thrust in. The hair was of a rusty sandy colour, a shade lighter than the deeply-tanned face, while a perpetual grin parted the owner’s lips as if he were proud to show his teeth, though, truth to tell, there was nothing to be proud of unless it was their bad shape and size. But the most striking features were the eyes, which somehow or another possessed a fiery reddish tinge, and added a certain fierceness to a physiognomy which would otherwise have been very weak.Fitz started at the apparition.“The impertinence!” he muttered. “Here, I say,” he shouted now, “who are you?”“Who am I, laddie?” came in a harsh voice. “Ye ken I’m the cook.”“And what do you want here, sir? Laddie, indeed! Why didn’t you knock?”“Knock!” said the man, staring, as he came right in.“I didna come to knock: just to give you the word that it’s all hot and ready now.”“What’s hot and ready?”“The few broth I’ve got for you. Ye didna want to be taking doctor’s wash now, but good, strong meaty stuff to build up your flesh and bones.”Fitz stared.“Look here, you, Poole Reed; what does this man mean by coming into my cabin like this? Is he mad?”“No, no,” said Poole, laughing. “It’s all right; I’d forgotten. He asked me if he hadn’t better bring you something every day now for a bit of lunch. It’s all right, Andy. Mr Burnett’s quite ready. Go and fetch it.”The man nodded, grinned, in no wise hurt by his reception, and backed out again.“Rum-looking fellow, isn’t he, Mr Burnett?”“Disgusting-looking person for a cook. Can anybody eat what he prepares?”“We do,” said Poole quietly. “Oh, he keeps his galley beautifully clean, does Andy Campbell—Cawmell, he calls himself, and the lads always call him the Camel. And he works quite as hard.”He had only just spoken when the man returned on the tips of his bare toes, looking, for all the world, like the ordinary able seaman from a man-of-war. He bore no tray, napkin, and little tureen, but just an ordinary ship’s basin in one hand, a spoon in the other, and carefully balanced himself as he entered the cabin, swaying himself with the basin so that a drop should not go over the side.“There y’are, me puir laddie. Ye’ll just soop that up before I come back for the bowl. There’s pepper and salt in, and just a wee bit onion to make it taste. All made out of good beef, and joost the pheesic to make you strong.”“Give it to me, Andy,” cried Poole, and the man placed it in his hands, smiled and nodded at the prisoner, and then backed out with his knees very much bent.Poole stood stirring the broth in the basin slowly round and round, and spreading a peculiar vulgar odour which at first filled the invalid with annoyance; but as it pervaded the place it somehow began to have a decided effect upon the boy’s olfactory nerves and excited within him a strange yearning which drove away every token of disgust.“It’s too hot to give you yet,” said Poole quietly. “You must wait a few minutes.”Fitz’s first idea had been that he would not condescend to touch what he was ready to dub “a mess.” It looked objectionable, being of a strange colour and the surface dotted with yellowish spots of molten fat, while mingled with them were strange streaky pieces of divided onion. But animal food had for many days been a stranger to the sick lad’s lips—and then there was the smell which rapidly became to the boy’s nostrils a most fascinating perfume. So that it was in a softened tone that he spoke next, as he watched the slow passage round and round of the big metal spoon.“It doesn’t look nice,” he said.“No. Ship’s soup never does,” replied Poole, “but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, you know. The Camel’s about right, though. This is the best physic you can have. Will you try it now?”This was an attack that the boy could not stand. He wanted to say No, with a gesture of disgust, but Nature would not let him then.“I dunno,” he said dubiously. “Did he make it?”“Of course.”“But he looks like a common sailor; not a bit like a cook.”“He is a foremast-man, and takes his turn at everything, like the rest; but he does all the cooking just the same.”“But is he really clean?”“He made all those bread-cakes you have eaten,” was the reply.“Oh,” said Fitz quickly, for the soup smelt aggravatingly nice. “Would you mind tasting it?”Poole raised the spoon to his lips, and replaced it.“Splendid,” he said. “You try.”He carefully placed the basin in his patient’s lap, with the spoon ready to his hand, and drew back, watching the peculiar curl at the corners of the boy’s lips as he slowly passed the spoon round and then raised it to his mouth.A few seconds later the spoon went round the basin again and was followed by an audible sip, on hearing which Poole went to the window, thrust out his head, and began to whistle, keeping up his tune as if he were playing orchestra to a banquet, while he watched the dart and splash of a fish from time to time about the surface, and the shadowy shapes of others deep down below the schooner’s stern-post, clearly enough seen in the crystal sunlit water set a-ripple by the gentle gliding through it of the vessel’s keel.After waiting what he considered a sufficient time, Poole said loudly, without turning round—“There’s plenty of fish in sight.”But there was no reply, and he waited again until in due time he heard a sharp click as of metal against crockery which was followed by a deep sigh, and then the lad turned slowly, to see the midshipman leaning back in the berth with his hands behind his head, the empty basin and spoon resting in his lap.Poole Reed did not say what he would have liked, neither was there any sound of triumph in his voice. He merely removed the empty vessel and asked a question—“Was it decent?”And Fitz forgot himself. For the moment all his irritability seemed gone, and the natural boy came to the surface.“Splendid!” he cried. “I never enjoyed anything so much before in my life.”And all that about a dingy basin of soup with fragments of onion and spots of fat floating therein. But it was the first real meal of returning health.

Fitz had just finished his semi-apology when the fastening of the door clicked softly; it was pushed, and a peculiar-looking, shaggy head was thrust in. The hair was of a rusty sandy colour, a shade lighter than the deeply-tanned face, while a perpetual grin parted the owner’s lips as if he were proud to show his teeth, though, truth to tell, there was nothing to be proud of unless it was their bad shape and size. But the most striking features were the eyes, which somehow or another possessed a fiery reddish tinge, and added a certain fierceness to a physiognomy which would otherwise have been very weak.

Fitz started at the apparition.

“The impertinence!” he muttered. “Here, I say,” he shouted now, “who are you?”

“Who am I, laddie?” came in a harsh voice. “Ye ken I’m the cook.”

“And what do you want here, sir? Laddie, indeed! Why didn’t you knock?”

“Knock!” said the man, staring, as he came right in.

“I didna come to knock: just to give you the word that it’s all hot and ready now.”

“What’s hot and ready?”

“The few broth I’ve got for you. Ye didna want to be taking doctor’s wash now, but good, strong meaty stuff to build up your flesh and bones.”

Fitz stared.

“Look here, you, Poole Reed; what does this man mean by coming into my cabin like this? Is he mad?”

“No, no,” said Poole, laughing. “It’s all right; I’d forgotten. He asked me if he hadn’t better bring you something every day now for a bit of lunch. It’s all right, Andy. Mr Burnett’s quite ready. Go and fetch it.”

The man nodded, grinned, in no wise hurt by his reception, and backed out again.

“Rum-looking fellow, isn’t he, Mr Burnett?”

“Disgusting-looking person for a cook. Can anybody eat what he prepares?”

“We do,” said Poole quietly. “Oh, he keeps his galley beautifully clean, does Andy Campbell—Cawmell, he calls himself, and the lads always call him the Camel. And he works quite as hard.”

He had only just spoken when the man returned on the tips of his bare toes, looking, for all the world, like the ordinary able seaman from a man-of-war. He bore no tray, napkin, and little tureen, but just an ordinary ship’s basin in one hand, a spoon in the other, and carefully balanced himself as he entered the cabin, swaying himself with the basin so that a drop should not go over the side.

“There y’are, me puir laddie. Ye’ll just soop that up before I come back for the bowl. There’s pepper and salt in, and just a wee bit onion to make it taste. All made out of good beef, and joost the pheesic to make you strong.”

“Give it to me, Andy,” cried Poole, and the man placed it in his hands, smiled and nodded at the prisoner, and then backed out with his knees very much bent.

Poole stood stirring the broth in the basin slowly round and round, and spreading a peculiar vulgar odour which at first filled the invalid with annoyance; but as it pervaded the place it somehow began to have a decided effect upon the boy’s olfactory nerves and excited within him a strange yearning which drove away every token of disgust.

“It’s too hot to give you yet,” said Poole quietly. “You must wait a few minutes.”

Fitz’s first idea had been that he would not condescend to touch what he was ready to dub “a mess.” It looked objectionable, being of a strange colour and the surface dotted with yellowish spots of molten fat, while mingled with them were strange streaky pieces of divided onion. But animal food had for many days been a stranger to the sick lad’s lips—and then there was the smell which rapidly became to the boy’s nostrils a most fascinating perfume. So that it was in a softened tone that he spoke next, as he watched the slow passage round and round of the big metal spoon.

“It doesn’t look nice,” he said.

“No. Ship’s soup never does,” replied Poole, “but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, you know. The Camel’s about right, though. This is the best physic you can have. Will you try it now?”

This was an attack that the boy could not stand. He wanted to say No, with a gesture of disgust, but Nature would not let him then.

“I dunno,” he said dubiously. “Did he make it?”

“Of course.”

“But he looks like a common sailor; not a bit like a cook.”

“He is a foremast-man, and takes his turn at everything, like the rest; but he does all the cooking just the same.”

“But is he really clean?”

“He made all those bread-cakes you have eaten,” was the reply.

“Oh,” said Fitz quickly, for the soup smelt aggravatingly nice. “Would you mind tasting it?”

Poole raised the spoon to his lips, and replaced it.

“Splendid,” he said. “You try.”

He carefully placed the basin in his patient’s lap, with the spoon ready to his hand, and drew back, watching the peculiar curl at the corners of the boy’s lips as he slowly passed the spoon round and then raised it to his mouth.

A few seconds later the spoon went round the basin again and was followed by an audible sip, on hearing which Poole went to the window, thrust out his head, and began to whistle, keeping up his tune as if he were playing orchestra to a banquet, while he watched the dart and splash of a fish from time to time about the surface, and the shadowy shapes of others deep down below the schooner’s stern-post, clearly enough seen in the crystal sunlit water set a-ripple by the gentle gliding through it of the vessel’s keel.

After waiting what he considered a sufficient time, Poole said loudly, without turning round—

“There’s plenty of fish in sight.”

But there was no reply, and he waited again until in due time he heard a sharp click as of metal against crockery which was followed by a deep sigh, and then the lad turned slowly, to see the midshipman leaning back in the berth with his hands behind his head, the empty basin and spoon resting in his lap.

Poole Reed did not say what he would have liked, neither was there any sound of triumph in his voice. He merely removed the empty vessel and asked a question—

“Was it decent?”

And Fitz forgot himself. For the moment all his irritability seemed gone, and the natural boy came to the surface.

“Splendid!” he cried. “I never enjoyed anything so much before in my life.”

And all that about a dingy basin of soup with fragments of onion and spots of fat floating therein. But it was the first real meal of returning health.

Chapter Nine.A mon frae the North.Poole looked as solemn and calm as a judge as he raised the soup-basin and listened to his patient’s words, while all at once a suspicious thought glanced through Fitz’s brain, and he looked at the lad quickly and felt relieved, for no one could have imagined from the grave, stolid face before him that mirth like so much soda-water was bubbling and twinkling as it effervesced all through the being of the skipper’s son.“I couldn’t have held it in any longer,” said Poole to himself, with a sigh of relief, for just then the door clicked and the Camel’s head came slowly in with the red eyes glowing and watchful.Then seeing that the meal was ended he came right in, and took basin and spoon from Poole as if they were his own special property.“Feel better, laddie?” he said, with a grin at the patient.“Oh yes, thank you, cook,” was the genial reply. “Capital soup.”“Ay,” said the Camel seriously, “and ye’ll just take the same dose every morning at twa bells till you feel as if you can eat salt-junk like a mon. Ah weel, ah weel! They make a fine flather about doctors and their stuff, but ye mind me there isn’t another as can do a sick mon sae much good as the cook.”“Hear that, Mr Burnett?”“Oh yes, I hear,” said Fitz, smiling, with a look of content upon his features to which they had for many days been strangers.“I am not going to say a word the noo aboot the skipper, and what he’s done. He’s a grand mon for a hole or a cut or a bit broken leg. He’s got bottles and poothers of a’ kinds, but when the bit place is mended it’s the cook that has to do the rigging up. You joost stick to Andy Cawmell, and he’ll make a man of you in no time.”“Thank you, cook,” said Fitz, smiling.“And ye’ll be reet. But if ye’d no’ mind, ye’ll joost kindly say ‘Andy mon,’ or ‘laddie’ when you speak to me. It seems more friendly than ‘cook.’ Ye see, cook seems to belang more to a sonsy lassie than a mon. Just let it be ‘Andy’ noo.”“All right; I’ll mind,” said the middy, who looked amused.“Ah, it’s a gran’ thing, cooking, and stands first of all, for it keeps every one alive and strong. They talk a deal about French cooks and their kickshaws, and about English cooks, and I’m no saying but that some English cooks are very decent bodies; but when you come to Irish, Ould Oireland, as they ca’ it, there’s only one thing that ever came from there, and that’s Irish stew.”“What about taters, Andy?”“Why, isna that part of it? Who ever heard of an Irish stew without taters? That’s Irish taters, my lad, but if you want a real good Irish stew you must ha’e it made of Scotch mutton and Scotch potatoes, same as we’ve got on board now. And joost you bide a wee, laddies, till we get across the ocean, and if there’s a ship to be found there, I’ll just show you the truth of what I mean. Do ye mind me, laddie?” continued the cook, fixing Fitz tightly with his red eyes.“Mind you? Yes,” said Fitz; “but what do you want with a ship to make a stew in?”“What do I want with a ship?” said Andy, looking puzzled. “Why, to cook!”“Cook a ship?”“Ah, sure. Won’t a bit of mutton be guid after so much salt and tinned beef?”“Oh, a sheep!” cried Fitz.“Ay, I said so: a ship. Your leg of mutton, or a shouther are all very good in their way, but a neck makes the best Irish stew. But bide a wee till we do get hold of a ship, and I’ll make you a dish such as will make you say you’ll never look at an Irish stew again.”“Oh!” cried Poole. “He means one of those—”“Nay, nay, nay! Let me tell him, laddie. He never ken’d such a thing on board a man-o’-war. D’ye ken the national dish, Mr Burnett, sir?”“Of course,” said Fitz; “the roast beef of old England.”“Pugh!” ejaculated the Scot. “Ye don’t know. Then I’ll tell ye. Joost gi’e me the liver and a few ither wee bit innards, some oatmeal, pepper, salt, an onion, and the bahg, and I’ll make you a dish that ye’ll say will be as good as the heathen deities lived on.”“Do you know what that was?” said Fitz.“Ay, laddie; it was a kind of broth, or brose—ambrose, they called it, but I dinna believe a word of it. Ambrose, they ca’ed it! But how could they get hahm or brose up in the clouds? A’m thinking that the heathen gods didn’t eat at all, but sippit and suppit the stuff they got from the top of a mountain somewhere out in those pairts—I’ve read it all, laddies, in an auld book calledPantheon—mixed with dew, mountain-dew.”“Nonsense!” cried Fitz, breaking into a pleasant laugh.“Nay, it’s no nonsense, laddie. I’ve got it all down, prented in a book. Ambrosia, the chiel ca’ed it, because he didn’t know how to spell, and when I came to thenk I see it all as plain as the nose on your face. It was not ambrose at all, but Athol brose.”“And what’s that?” cried Fitz.“Hech, mon! And ye a young laird and officer and dinna ken what Athol brose is!”“No,” said Fitz; “we learnt so much Greek and Latin at my school that we had to leave out the Scotch.”“Hearken to him, young Poole Reed! Not to know that! But it is Greek—about the Greek gods and goddesses. And ye dinna ken what Athol brose is?”“No,” said Fitz; “I never heard of it in my life.”“Weel, then, I’ll just tell ye, though it’s nae good for boys. It’s joost a meexture half honey and half whisky, or mountain-dew; and noo ye ken.”“But you are not going to make a mess like that when you get a sheep.”“Ship, laddie—ship. If ye ca’ it like that naebody will think ye mean a mutton that goes on four feet.”“Well, pronounce it your own way,” said Fitz. “But what is this wonderful dish you mean to make?”“He means kidney-broth, made with the liver,” said Poole.“Nay, nay. Dinna you mind him, laddie. He only said that to make you laugh. You bide a wee, and I’ll make one fit for a Queen. You’ve never tasted haggis, but some day you shall.”Andy Cawmell closed one eye and gave the convalescent what was intended for a very mysterious, confidential look, and then stole gravely out of the cabin, closed the door after him, and opened it directly after, to thrust in his head, the basin, and the spoon.“D’ye mind, laddie,” he whispered, tapping the basin, “at twa bells every day the meexture as before.”He closed the door again, and this time did not return, though Fitz waited for a few moments before speaking, his eyes twinkling now with merriment.“Haggis!” he cried. “Scotch haggis! Of course, I know. It’s mincemeat boiled in the bag of the pipes with the pipes themselves chopped up for bones. You’ve heard of it before?”“Oh yes, though I never tasted it. Andy makes one for the lads whenever he gets a chance.”“Do they eat it?”“Oh yes, and laugh at him all the time. I dare say it’s very good, but I never felt disposed to try. But he’s a good fellow, is Andy, and as fine a sailor as ever stepped. You’ll get to like him by and by.”“Get to like him?” said Fitz, pulling himself up short and stiff. “Humph! I dunno so much about that, young fellow. Look here, how long do you expect it’s going to be before I am set aboard some ship?”“Ah, that’s more than anybody can say,” replied Poole quietly.Fitz was silent for a few moments, and then said sharply—“What’s the name of the port for which you are making sail?”“Name of the port?” said Poole.“Yes; you heard what I said, and I want to know.”“Yes; it’s only natural that you would,” said Poole. “I say, shall I get the tackle now?”“No; I want an answer to my question,” replied Fitz, firing up again.“Well, I can’t tell you. That’s my father’s business. We are sailing under what you would call sealed orders on board a Queen’s ship.”“That’s shuffling,” cried Fitz angrily, with the black clouds coming over the little bit of sunshine that lit up his face after his soup. “Now, sir, I order you to tell me, an officer in the Queen’s service, where this schooner is bound.”Poole was silent. “Do you hear me, sir?”“Oh yes, I hear,” said Poole, “but I am in a state of mutiny, and I’m going to ask old Butters to lend me his long line and hooks.”He moved towards the door as he spoke, but Fitz shouted to him to stop.It was all in vain, for the lad closed the door and shut in the midshipman’s angry face.“Gone!” ejaculated Fitz. “He’s too much for me now; but only just wait till I get well and strong!”

Poole looked as solemn and calm as a judge as he raised the soup-basin and listened to his patient’s words, while all at once a suspicious thought glanced through Fitz’s brain, and he looked at the lad quickly and felt relieved, for no one could have imagined from the grave, stolid face before him that mirth like so much soda-water was bubbling and twinkling as it effervesced all through the being of the skipper’s son.

“I couldn’t have held it in any longer,” said Poole to himself, with a sigh of relief, for just then the door clicked and the Camel’s head came slowly in with the red eyes glowing and watchful.

Then seeing that the meal was ended he came right in, and took basin and spoon from Poole as if they were his own special property.

“Feel better, laddie?” he said, with a grin at the patient.

“Oh yes, thank you, cook,” was the genial reply. “Capital soup.”

“Ay,” said the Camel seriously, “and ye’ll just take the same dose every morning at twa bells till you feel as if you can eat salt-junk like a mon. Ah weel, ah weel! They make a fine flather about doctors and their stuff, but ye mind me there isn’t another as can do a sick mon sae much good as the cook.”

“Hear that, Mr Burnett?”

“Oh yes, I hear,” said Fitz, smiling, with a look of content upon his features to which they had for many days been strangers.

“I am not going to say a word the noo aboot the skipper, and what he’s done. He’s a grand mon for a hole or a cut or a bit broken leg. He’s got bottles and poothers of a’ kinds, but when the bit place is mended it’s the cook that has to do the rigging up. You joost stick to Andy Cawmell, and he’ll make a man of you in no time.”

“Thank you, cook,” said Fitz, smiling.

“And ye’ll be reet. But if ye’d no’ mind, ye’ll joost kindly say ‘Andy mon,’ or ‘laddie’ when you speak to me. It seems more friendly than ‘cook.’ Ye see, cook seems to belang more to a sonsy lassie than a mon. Just let it be ‘Andy’ noo.”

“All right; I’ll mind,” said the middy, who looked amused.

“Ah, it’s a gran’ thing, cooking, and stands first of all, for it keeps every one alive and strong. They talk a deal about French cooks and their kickshaws, and about English cooks, and I’m no saying but that some English cooks are very decent bodies; but when you come to Irish, Ould Oireland, as they ca’ it, there’s only one thing that ever came from there, and that’s Irish stew.”

“What about taters, Andy?”

“Why, isna that part of it? Who ever heard of an Irish stew without taters? That’s Irish taters, my lad, but if you want a real good Irish stew you must ha’e it made of Scotch mutton and Scotch potatoes, same as we’ve got on board now. And joost you bide a wee, laddies, till we get across the ocean, and if there’s a ship to be found there, I’ll just show you the truth of what I mean. Do ye mind me, laddie?” continued the cook, fixing Fitz tightly with his red eyes.

“Mind you? Yes,” said Fitz; “but what do you want with a ship to make a stew in?”

“What do I want with a ship?” said Andy, looking puzzled. “Why, to cook!”

“Cook a ship?”

“Ah, sure. Won’t a bit of mutton be guid after so much salt and tinned beef?”

“Oh, a sheep!” cried Fitz.

“Ay, I said so: a ship. Your leg of mutton, or a shouther are all very good in their way, but a neck makes the best Irish stew. But bide a wee till we do get hold of a ship, and I’ll make you a dish such as will make you say you’ll never look at an Irish stew again.”

“Oh!” cried Poole. “He means one of those—”

“Nay, nay, nay! Let me tell him, laddie. He never ken’d such a thing on board a man-o’-war. D’ye ken the national dish, Mr Burnett, sir?”

“Of course,” said Fitz; “the roast beef of old England.”

“Pugh!” ejaculated the Scot. “Ye don’t know. Then I’ll tell ye. Joost gi’e me the liver and a few ither wee bit innards, some oatmeal, pepper, salt, an onion, and the bahg, and I’ll make you a dish that ye’ll say will be as good as the heathen deities lived on.”

“Do you know what that was?” said Fitz.

“Ay, laddie; it was a kind of broth, or brose—ambrose, they called it, but I dinna believe a word of it. Ambrose, they ca’ed it! But how could they get hahm or brose up in the clouds? A’m thinking that the heathen gods didn’t eat at all, but sippit and suppit the stuff they got from the top of a mountain somewhere out in those pairts—I’ve read it all, laddies, in an auld book calledPantheon—mixed with dew, mountain-dew.”

“Nonsense!” cried Fitz, breaking into a pleasant laugh.

“Nay, it’s no nonsense, laddie. I’ve got it all down, prented in a book. Ambrosia, the chiel ca’ed it, because he didn’t know how to spell, and when I came to thenk I see it all as plain as the nose on your face. It was not ambrose at all, but Athol brose.”

“And what’s that?” cried Fitz.

“Hech, mon! And ye a young laird and officer and dinna ken what Athol brose is!”

“No,” said Fitz; “we learnt so much Greek and Latin at my school that we had to leave out the Scotch.”

“Hearken to him, young Poole Reed! Not to know that! But it is Greek—about the Greek gods and goddesses. And ye dinna ken what Athol brose is?”

“No,” said Fitz; “I never heard of it in my life.”

“Weel, then, I’ll just tell ye, though it’s nae good for boys. It’s joost a meexture half honey and half whisky, or mountain-dew; and noo ye ken.”

“But you are not going to make a mess like that when you get a sheep.”

“Ship, laddie—ship. If ye ca’ it like that naebody will think ye mean a mutton that goes on four feet.”

“Well, pronounce it your own way,” said Fitz. “But what is this wonderful dish you mean to make?”

“He means kidney-broth, made with the liver,” said Poole.

“Nay, nay. Dinna you mind him, laddie. He only said that to make you laugh. You bide a wee, and I’ll make one fit for a Queen. You’ve never tasted haggis, but some day you shall.”

Andy Cawmell closed one eye and gave the convalescent what was intended for a very mysterious, confidential look, and then stole gravely out of the cabin, closed the door after him, and opened it directly after, to thrust in his head, the basin, and the spoon.

“D’ye mind, laddie,” he whispered, tapping the basin, “at twa bells every day the meexture as before.”

He closed the door again, and this time did not return, though Fitz waited for a few moments before speaking, his eyes twinkling now with merriment.

“Haggis!” he cried. “Scotch haggis! Of course, I know. It’s mincemeat boiled in the bag of the pipes with the pipes themselves chopped up for bones. You’ve heard of it before?”

“Oh yes, though I never tasted it. Andy makes one for the lads whenever he gets a chance.”

“Do they eat it?”

“Oh yes, and laugh at him all the time. I dare say it’s very good, but I never felt disposed to try. But he’s a good fellow, is Andy, and as fine a sailor as ever stepped. You’ll get to like him by and by.”

“Get to like him?” said Fitz, pulling himself up short and stiff. “Humph! I dunno so much about that, young fellow. Look here, how long do you expect it’s going to be before I am set aboard some ship?”

“Ah, that’s more than anybody can say,” replied Poole quietly.

Fitz was silent for a few moments, and then said sharply—

“What’s the name of the port for which you are making sail?”

“Name of the port?” said Poole.

“Yes; you heard what I said, and I want to know.”

“Yes; it’s only natural that you would,” said Poole. “I say, shall I get the tackle now?”

“No; I want an answer to my question,” replied Fitz, firing up again.

“Well, I can’t tell you. That’s my father’s business. We are sailing under what you would call sealed orders on board a Queen’s ship.”

“That’s shuffling,” cried Fitz angrily, with the black clouds coming over the little bit of sunshine that lit up his face after his soup. “Now, sir, I order you to tell me, an officer in the Queen’s service, where this schooner is bound.”

Poole was silent. “Do you hear me, sir?”

“Oh yes, I hear,” said Poole, “but I am in a state of mutiny, and I’m going to ask old Butters to lend me his long line and hooks.”

He moved towards the door as he spoke, but Fitz shouted to him to stop.

It was all in vain, for the lad closed the door and shut in the midshipman’s angry face.

“Gone!” ejaculated Fitz. “He’s too much for me now; but only just wait till I get well and strong!”

Chapter Ten.What Fitz wanted.“What do you think of this for weather?” said Poole, one morning. “Isn’t it worth sailing right away to get into such seas as this?”“Yes,” said Fitz dreamily, as he lay on one side in his berth with his hand under his cheek, gazing through the cabin-window at the beautiful glancing water; “it is very lovely.”“Doesn’t it make you feel as if you were getting quite well?”“I think it would,” said the boy, almost as if speaking to himself; “it would be all right enough if a fellow could feel happy.”“Well,” said Poole, “you ought to begin to now. Just see how you’ve altered. Father says you are to come up this afternoon as soon as the heat of the day has passed.”“Come on deck?” cried Fitz, brightening. “Ah! That’s less like being a prisoner.”“A prisoner!” said Poole merrily. “Hark at him! Why, you are only a visitor, having a pleasant cruise. Father’s coming directly,” he added hastily, for he saw the look of depression coming back into the boy’s face. “He says this is the last time he shall examine your head, and that you won’t want doctoring any more. Come, isn’t that good news enough for one morning?”Fitz made no reply, but lay with his face contracting, evidently thinking of something else.“As soon as he’s gone,” continued Poole, “I am going to bring the lines and some bait. Old Butters said you could have them as much as you liked. Don’t turn gruff again this time and say you don’t want to try.”Fitz appeared to take no notice, and Poole went on—“There are shoals of bonito about, and the Camel can dress them fine. You don’t know how good they are, freshly caught and fried.”Fitz made an impatient gesture.“How soon is your father coming below?” he said.“Oh, he may be down any moment. He and Mr Burgess are taking observations overhead and calculating our course.”“Then he won’t be very long,” said Fitz.“Oh no. Want to speak to him?”“Yes, particularly.”Poole gave the speaker a sharp look, which evidently meant, I wonder what he wants to say.At that moment the boys’ eyes met, and Fitz said, as if to evade a question—“Don’t you learn navigation—take observations, and that sort of thing?”“Oh yes, lots of it; but I have been having a holiday since you’ve been on board. So have you. It must be quite a change after your busy life on board a gunboat, drilling and signalling, and all that sort of thing.”Fitz was hearing him speak, but listening intently all the time, so that he gave an eager start and exclaimed—“Here’s your father coming now.”For steps were plainly heard on the companion-ladder, and the next minute the door was thrust open, and the bluff-looking skipper entered the cabin.“Morning, sir,” he cried. “How are we this morning? Oh, it doesn’t want any telling. You are getting on grandly. Did Poole tell you I wanted you to come up on deck this afternoon?”“Yes, sir; thank you. I feel a deal better now, only my legs are very weak when I try to stand up holding on by my berth.”“Yes, I suppose so,” said the skipper, sitting down by the boy’s head and watching him keenly. “You are weak, of course, but it’s more imaginary than real. Any one who lays up for a week or two would feel weak when he got out of bed.”“But my head swims so, sir.”“Exactly. That’s only another sign. You are eating well now, and getting quite yourself. But I am going to prescribe you another dose.”“Physic?” said Fitz, with a look of disgust.“Yes, fresh air physic. I want you to take it very coolly for the next few days, but to keep on deck always except in the hottest times. In another week you won’t know yourself.”“Hah!” ejaculated the boy. “Then now, sir—don’t think me ungrateful, for nobody could be kinder to me than you and Poole here have shown yourselves since I have been aboard.”“Thank you, my lad, for both of us,” said the skipper, smiling good-humouredly. “I am glad you give such ruffians as we are so good a character. But you were going to say something.”“Yes, sir,” said the boy excitedly, and he cleared his voice, which had grown husky.“Go on, then. You are beating about the bush as if you had some favour to ask. What is it?”“I want,” cried Fitz excitedly, and his cheeks flushed and eyes flashed—“I want you, sir,” he repeated, “now that you say I’m better and fit to get about—”“On deck,” said the skipper dryly.“Oh yes, and anywhere as soon as this giddiness has passed off... I want you now, sir, to set me ashore.”“Hah! Yes,” said the skipper slowly. “I knew we were coming to that.”“Why, of course, sir. Think of what I must have suffered and felt.”“I thought Poole here had done his best to make you comfortable, my lad.”“Oh yes, and he has, sir,” cried the boy, turning to look full in his attendant’s eyes. “He has been a splendid fellow, sir. Nobody could have been kinder to me than he has, even at my worst times, when I was so ill and irritable that I behaved to him like a surly brute.”“It’s your turn now, Poole,” growled the skipper, “to say ‘Thank you’ for that.”“But you must feel, sir, how anxious and worried I must be—how eager to get back to my ship. In another day or two, Captain Reed, I shall be quite well enough to go. Promise me, sir, that you will set me ashore.”The skipper had pursed up his lips as if he were going to whistle for the wind, and he turned his now frowning face to look steadfastly at his son, who met his eyes with a questioning gaze, while the midshipman looked anxiously from one to the other, as if seeking to catch an encouraging look which failed to come.At last the boy broke the silence again, trying to speak firmly; but, paradoxically, weakness was too strong, and his voice sounded cracked as he cried, almost pitifully—“Oh, Captain Reed! Promise me you will now set me ashore!”The skipper was silent for a few moments, before turning his face slowly to meet the appealing look in the boy’s eyes.“Set you ashore?” he said gruffly.“Yes, sir, please. Pray do!”And the answer came—“Where, my boy? Where?”

“What do you think of this for weather?” said Poole, one morning. “Isn’t it worth sailing right away to get into such seas as this?”

“Yes,” said Fitz dreamily, as he lay on one side in his berth with his hand under his cheek, gazing through the cabin-window at the beautiful glancing water; “it is very lovely.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel as if you were getting quite well?”

“I think it would,” said the boy, almost as if speaking to himself; “it would be all right enough if a fellow could feel happy.”

“Well,” said Poole, “you ought to begin to now. Just see how you’ve altered. Father says you are to come up this afternoon as soon as the heat of the day has passed.”

“Come on deck?” cried Fitz, brightening. “Ah! That’s less like being a prisoner.”

“A prisoner!” said Poole merrily. “Hark at him! Why, you are only a visitor, having a pleasant cruise. Father’s coming directly,” he added hastily, for he saw the look of depression coming back into the boy’s face. “He says this is the last time he shall examine your head, and that you won’t want doctoring any more. Come, isn’t that good news enough for one morning?”

Fitz made no reply, but lay with his face contracting, evidently thinking of something else.

“As soon as he’s gone,” continued Poole, “I am going to bring the lines and some bait. Old Butters said you could have them as much as you liked. Don’t turn gruff again this time and say you don’t want to try.”

Fitz appeared to take no notice, and Poole went on—

“There are shoals of bonito about, and the Camel can dress them fine. You don’t know how good they are, freshly caught and fried.”

Fitz made an impatient gesture.

“How soon is your father coming below?” he said.

“Oh, he may be down any moment. He and Mr Burgess are taking observations overhead and calculating our course.”

“Then he won’t be very long,” said Fitz.

“Oh no. Want to speak to him?”

“Yes, particularly.”

Poole gave the speaker a sharp look, which evidently meant, I wonder what he wants to say.

At that moment the boys’ eyes met, and Fitz said, as if to evade a question—

“Don’t you learn navigation—take observations, and that sort of thing?”

“Oh yes, lots of it; but I have been having a holiday since you’ve been on board. So have you. It must be quite a change after your busy life on board a gunboat, drilling and signalling, and all that sort of thing.”

Fitz was hearing him speak, but listening intently all the time, so that he gave an eager start and exclaimed—

“Here’s your father coming now.”

For steps were plainly heard on the companion-ladder, and the next minute the door was thrust open, and the bluff-looking skipper entered the cabin.

“Morning, sir,” he cried. “How are we this morning? Oh, it doesn’t want any telling. You are getting on grandly. Did Poole tell you I wanted you to come up on deck this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir; thank you. I feel a deal better now, only my legs are very weak when I try to stand up holding on by my berth.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said the skipper, sitting down by the boy’s head and watching him keenly. “You are weak, of course, but it’s more imaginary than real. Any one who lays up for a week or two would feel weak when he got out of bed.”

“But my head swims so, sir.”

“Exactly. That’s only another sign. You are eating well now, and getting quite yourself. But I am going to prescribe you another dose.”

“Physic?” said Fitz, with a look of disgust.

“Yes, fresh air physic. I want you to take it very coolly for the next few days, but to keep on deck always except in the hottest times. In another week you won’t know yourself.”

“Hah!” ejaculated the boy. “Then now, sir—don’t think me ungrateful, for nobody could be kinder to me than you and Poole here have shown yourselves since I have been aboard.”

“Thank you, my lad, for both of us,” said the skipper, smiling good-humouredly. “I am glad you give such ruffians as we are so good a character. But you were going to say something.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy excitedly, and he cleared his voice, which had grown husky.

“Go on, then. You are beating about the bush as if you had some favour to ask. What is it?”

“I want,” cried Fitz excitedly, and his cheeks flushed and eyes flashed—“I want you, sir,” he repeated, “now that you say I’m better and fit to get about—”

“On deck,” said the skipper dryly.

“Oh yes, and anywhere as soon as this giddiness has passed off... I want you now, sir, to set me ashore.”

“Hah! Yes,” said the skipper slowly. “I knew we were coming to that.”

“Why, of course, sir. Think of what I must have suffered and felt.”

“I thought Poole here had done his best to make you comfortable, my lad.”

“Oh yes, and he has, sir,” cried the boy, turning to look full in his attendant’s eyes. “He has been a splendid fellow, sir. Nobody could have been kinder to me than he has, even at my worst times, when I was so ill and irritable that I behaved to him like a surly brute.”

“It’s your turn now, Poole,” growled the skipper, “to say ‘Thank you’ for that.”

“But you must feel, sir, how anxious and worried I must be—how eager to get back to my ship. In another day or two, Captain Reed, I shall be quite well enough to go. Promise me, sir, that you will set me ashore.”

The skipper had pursed up his lips as if he were going to whistle for the wind, and he turned his now frowning face to look steadfastly at his son, who met his eyes with a questioning gaze, while the midshipman looked anxiously from one to the other, as if seeking to catch an encouraging look which failed to come.

At last the boy broke the silence again, trying to speak firmly; but, paradoxically, weakness was too strong, and his voice sounded cracked as he cried, almost pitifully—

“Oh, Captain Reed! Promise me you will now set me ashore!”

The skipper was silent for a few moments, before turning his face slowly to meet the appealing look in the boy’s eyes.

“Set you ashore?” he said gruffly.

“Yes, sir, please. Pray do!”

And the answer came—

“Where, my boy? Where?”

Chapter Eleven.Thoughts of home.Fitz Burnett looked wonderingly at the skipper as if he did not comprehend the bearings of the question. “Where?” he faltered. “Yes; you asked me to set you ashore. I say, where?”“Oh, at any American or English port, sir.”“Do you know how far we are from the nearest?”“No; I have no idea how far we have come.”“Never mind that,” said the skipper gravely. “Let’s take it from another way of thinking. Do you know what it means for me to set you ashore at some port?”“Oh yes, sir: that I shall be able to communicate with any English vessel, and get taken back to Liverpool.”“Well,” said the skipper grimly, “you are a young sailor, but I am afraid that you have very small ideas about the size of the world. I dare say, though, that would be possible, sooner or later, for you go to very few ports now-a-days without coming across a ship flying British colours. It would be all right for you; but what about me?”Fitz looked at him wonderingly again. “What about you, sir?” he stammered. “I was not thinking about you, but about myself.”“That wanted no telling, my lad. It’s plain enough. You were not thinking about me, but I was. Look here, my boy. Do you know what my setting you ashore means just now?”“Yes, sir,” said the boy sharply. “Getting rid of a very troublesome passenger.”“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I’ll tell you what I think. It would mean getting rid of one troublesome passenger, as you call yourself, and taking a dozen worse ones on board in the shape of a prize crew. Why, young Burnett, it would mean ruin to me and to my friends, whose money has been invested in this cargo.”“Oh no,no, sir. I am alone out here, and my captain’s vessel is far away. I couldn’t go and betray you, even if I wanted to. You could set me ashore and sail away at once. That’s all I want you to do.”“Sweet innocency!” said the skipper mockingly. “But I won’t set it down to artfulness. I think you are too much of a gentleman for that. But do you hear him, Poole? Nice ideas he has for a beardless young officer in Her Majesty’s Navy. Why, do you mean to tell me, sir, you know nothing about international politics, and a peculiar little way that they have now-a-days of flashing a bit of news all round the world in a few minutes of time? Don’t you think that after that bit of a turn up off Liverpool way, a full description of my schooner and her probable destination has been wired across the Atlantic, and that wherever I attempted to land you, it would be for the port officials to step on board and tap me on the shoulder with a kindly request to give an account of myself?”“I didn’t think of that,” said Fitz, slowly.“No,” said the skipper. “You thought that I could hail the first ship I saw, or sail up to the side of a quay, pitch you ashore, and sail off again. Why, Fitz Burnett, as soon as I came in sight I should be overhauled, seized, delayed for certain, and in all probability end by losing schooner, cargo, and my liberty.”“Surely it would not be so bad as that, sir?”“Surely it would be worse. No, my lad; I am sorry for you. I regret the ugly accident by which you were knocked over; but you are thinking, as we said before, about your position, your duty. I have got to think of mine. Now, here’s yours; you came on board here, unasked and unseen until the next morning when we had put a good many knots between us and your gunboat. It was impossible to land you, and so we made the best of it and treated you as well as we could. Time is money to me now, and my coming up punctually means something much more valuable than hard cash to the people I have come to see. To be plain, I can’t waste, even if I were so disposed, any time for sailing into port to put you ashore.”“Never mind that, then, sir,” cried Fitz excitedly. “Speak the first vessel you see, of any country, under any flag, and put me aboard there.”“No, my lad,” said the skipper sternly. “And I can’t do that. I am going to speak no ships. My work is to sail away and hold communication with no one. I have no need to make all this explanation to you, my boy, but I am doing it because we are sorry for you, and want to make things as easy as we can. Now, look here, you are a sensible lad, and you must learn to see your position. I can do nothing for you beyond treating you well, until I have made my port, run my cargo of knick-knacks, and cleared for home. By that time I shall have a clean bill of health, and be ready to look all new-comers in the face.”“But how long will that be, sir?” cried Fitz excitedly.“Dunno, my lad. It depends on what’s going on over yonder. If all goes smooth it may be only a month; if all goes rough, perhaps two, or three. I may be dodging about a long while. Worse still, my schooner may be taken, condemned, and my crew and I clapped in irons in some Spanish-American prison, to get free nobody knows when.”“Oh!” groaned Fitz excitedly.“I am being very plain to you, my lad, now that the cat’s out of the bag, and there’s nothing to hide. I am playing a dangerous game, one full of risk. It began when I was informed upon by some cowardly, dirty-minded scoundrel, one who no doubt had been taking my pay till he thought he could get no more, and then he split upon me, with the result that your captain was put upon the scent of my enterprise, to play dog and run me down in the dark. But you see I had one eye open, and got away. Now I suppose the telegraph will have been at work, and the folks over yonder will be waiting for me there, so that I shall have to hang about and wait my chance of communicating with my friends. So there, you see, you will have to wait one, two, perhaps three months, before, however good my will, I can do anything for you.”“But by that time,” cried Fitz, “I shall be disgraced.”“Bah! Nonsense, my lad! There can be no disgrace for one who boarded a vessel along with his crew, and had the bad luck to be struck down. Now, my boy, you know I’m a father. Let me speak like a father to you. Your real trouble is this, and I say honestly I am sorry, and so’s Poole there, not so much for you as for your poor relatives. There, it’s best I should speak quite plainly. It’s as well to know the worst that can have happened, and then it generally proves to have been not so bad; and that’s what clever folks call philosophy. The real trouble in your case is this, that by this time your poor relatives will probably know that your number has been wiped off your mess; in short, you have been reported—dead.”“What!” cried the boy, in a tone full of anguish. “They will have sent word home that I am dead?”“I am afraid so,” said the skipper. “It’s very sad, but you have got to bear it like a man.”“Sad!” cried the boy passionately. “It’s horrible! It will break her heart!”“You mean your mother’s,” said the skipper gravely, and he laid his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder. “But it’s not so bad as you think, my lad. I have had a little experience of women in my time—wives and mothers, boy—and there’s a little something that generally comes to them in cases like this and whispers in their poor ears. That little something, my boy, is always very kind to us sea-going people, and it’s called Hope. And somehow at such times as this it makes women think that matters can’t be so bad as they have been described, or that they can’t be true. Now I’d be ready to say that in spite of the bad news that’s come to your mother about you, she won’t believe it’s true, and that she’s waiting patiently for the better news that will some time come, and that it will be many, many months, perhaps a year, before she will really believe that you are dead.”“Oh, but it’s too horrible!” cried the boy wildly.“No, no, no. Come! Pluck up your spirits and make the best of it. Look here, boy. You must bear it for the sake of the greater pleasure, the joy that will come when she finds that she was right in her belief, and in the surprise to all your friends when they see you come back alive and kicking, and all the better for your voyage. I say, look at the bright side of things, and think how much better it has all been than if you had been knocked overboard to go down in the darkness at a time when it was every one for himself, and no one had a thought for you.”Fitz turned away his head so that neither father nor son could see the workings of his face.“There, my lad,” said the skipper, rising, “I was obliged to speak out plainly. I have hurt you, I know, but it has only been like the surgeon, to do you good. I am wanted on deck now, so take my advice; bear it like a man. Here, Poole, I want you for half-an-hour or so, and I dare say Mr Burnett would like to have a bit of a think to himself.”He gave the boy a warm pressure of his hand, and then strode out of the cabin, his example being followed the next moment by Poole, whose action was almost the same as his father’s, the exception being that he quickly caught hold of the middy’s hand and held it for a moment before he hurried out.Then and then only did Fitz’s face go down upon his hands, while a low groan of misery escaped his lips.

Fitz Burnett looked wonderingly at the skipper as if he did not comprehend the bearings of the question. “Where?” he faltered. “Yes; you asked me to set you ashore. I say, where?”

“Oh, at any American or English port, sir.”

“Do you know how far we are from the nearest?”

“No; I have no idea how far we have come.”

“Never mind that,” said the skipper gravely. “Let’s take it from another way of thinking. Do you know what it means for me to set you ashore at some port?”

“Oh yes, sir: that I shall be able to communicate with any English vessel, and get taken back to Liverpool.”

“Well,” said the skipper grimly, “you are a young sailor, but I am afraid that you have very small ideas about the size of the world. I dare say, though, that would be possible, sooner or later, for you go to very few ports now-a-days without coming across a ship flying British colours. It would be all right for you; but what about me?”

Fitz looked at him wonderingly again. “What about you, sir?” he stammered. “I was not thinking about you, but about myself.”

“That wanted no telling, my lad. It’s plain enough. You were not thinking about me, but I was. Look here, my boy. Do you know what my setting you ashore means just now?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy sharply. “Getting rid of a very troublesome passenger.”

“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I’ll tell you what I think. It would mean getting rid of one troublesome passenger, as you call yourself, and taking a dozen worse ones on board in the shape of a prize crew. Why, young Burnett, it would mean ruin to me and to my friends, whose money has been invested in this cargo.”

“Oh no,no, sir. I am alone out here, and my captain’s vessel is far away. I couldn’t go and betray you, even if I wanted to. You could set me ashore and sail away at once. That’s all I want you to do.”

“Sweet innocency!” said the skipper mockingly. “But I won’t set it down to artfulness. I think you are too much of a gentleman for that. But do you hear him, Poole? Nice ideas he has for a beardless young officer in Her Majesty’s Navy. Why, do you mean to tell me, sir, you know nothing about international politics, and a peculiar little way that they have now-a-days of flashing a bit of news all round the world in a few minutes of time? Don’t you think that after that bit of a turn up off Liverpool way, a full description of my schooner and her probable destination has been wired across the Atlantic, and that wherever I attempted to land you, it would be for the port officials to step on board and tap me on the shoulder with a kindly request to give an account of myself?”

“I didn’t think of that,” said Fitz, slowly.

“No,” said the skipper. “You thought that I could hail the first ship I saw, or sail up to the side of a quay, pitch you ashore, and sail off again. Why, Fitz Burnett, as soon as I came in sight I should be overhauled, seized, delayed for certain, and in all probability end by losing schooner, cargo, and my liberty.”

“Surely it would not be so bad as that, sir?”

“Surely it would be worse. No, my lad; I am sorry for you. I regret the ugly accident by which you were knocked over; but you are thinking, as we said before, about your position, your duty. I have got to think of mine. Now, here’s yours; you came on board here, unasked and unseen until the next morning when we had put a good many knots between us and your gunboat. It was impossible to land you, and so we made the best of it and treated you as well as we could. Time is money to me now, and my coming up punctually means something much more valuable than hard cash to the people I have come to see. To be plain, I can’t waste, even if I were so disposed, any time for sailing into port to put you ashore.”

“Never mind that, then, sir,” cried Fitz excitedly. “Speak the first vessel you see, of any country, under any flag, and put me aboard there.”

“No, my lad,” said the skipper sternly. “And I can’t do that. I am going to speak no ships. My work is to sail away and hold communication with no one. I have no need to make all this explanation to you, my boy, but I am doing it because we are sorry for you, and want to make things as easy as we can. Now, look here, you are a sensible lad, and you must learn to see your position. I can do nothing for you beyond treating you well, until I have made my port, run my cargo of knick-knacks, and cleared for home. By that time I shall have a clean bill of health, and be ready to look all new-comers in the face.”

“But how long will that be, sir?” cried Fitz excitedly.

“Dunno, my lad. It depends on what’s going on over yonder. If all goes smooth it may be only a month; if all goes rough, perhaps two, or three. I may be dodging about a long while. Worse still, my schooner may be taken, condemned, and my crew and I clapped in irons in some Spanish-American prison, to get free nobody knows when.”

“Oh!” groaned Fitz excitedly.

“I am being very plain to you, my lad, now that the cat’s out of the bag, and there’s nothing to hide. I am playing a dangerous game, one full of risk. It began when I was informed upon by some cowardly, dirty-minded scoundrel, one who no doubt had been taking my pay till he thought he could get no more, and then he split upon me, with the result that your captain was put upon the scent of my enterprise, to play dog and run me down in the dark. But you see I had one eye open, and got away. Now I suppose the telegraph will have been at work, and the folks over yonder will be waiting for me there, so that I shall have to hang about and wait my chance of communicating with my friends. So there, you see, you will have to wait one, two, perhaps three months, before, however good my will, I can do anything for you.”

“But by that time,” cried Fitz, “I shall be disgraced.”

“Bah! Nonsense, my lad! There can be no disgrace for one who boarded a vessel along with his crew, and had the bad luck to be struck down. Now, my boy, you know I’m a father. Let me speak like a father to you. Your real trouble is this, and I say honestly I am sorry, and so’s Poole there, not so much for you as for your poor relatives. There, it’s best I should speak quite plainly. It’s as well to know the worst that can have happened, and then it generally proves to have been not so bad; and that’s what clever folks call philosophy. The real trouble in your case is this, that by this time your poor relatives will probably know that your number has been wiped off your mess; in short, you have been reported—dead.”

“What!” cried the boy, in a tone full of anguish. “They will have sent word home that I am dead?”

“I am afraid so,” said the skipper. “It’s very sad, but you have got to bear it like a man.”

“Sad!” cried the boy passionately. “It’s horrible! It will break her heart!”

“You mean your mother’s,” said the skipper gravely, and he laid his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder. “But it’s not so bad as you think, my lad. I have had a little experience of women in my time—wives and mothers, boy—and there’s a little something that generally comes to them in cases like this and whispers in their poor ears. That little something, my boy, is always very kind to us sea-going people, and it’s called Hope. And somehow at such times as this it makes women think that matters can’t be so bad as they have been described, or that they can’t be true. Now I’d be ready to say that in spite of the bad news that’s come to your mother about you, she won’t believe it’s true, and that she’s waiting patiently for the better news that will some time come, and that it will be many, many months, perhaps a year, before she will really believe that you are dead.”

“Oh, but it’s too horrible!” cried the boy wildly.

“No, no, no. Come! Pluck up your spirits and make the best of it. Look here, boy. You must bear it for the sake of the greater pleasure, the joy that will come when she finds that she was right in her belief, and in the surprise to all your friends when they see you come back alive and kicking, and all the better for your voyage. I say, look at the bright side of things, and think how much better it has all been than if you had been knocked overboard to go down in the darkness at a time when it was every one for himself, and no one had a thought for you.”

Fitz turned away his head so that neither father nor son could see the workings of his face.

“There, my lad,” said the skipper, rising, “I was obliged to speak out plainly. I have hurt you, I know, but it has only been like the surgeon, to do you good. I am wanted on deck now, so take my advice; bear it like a man. Here, Poole, I want you for half-an-hour or so, and I dare say Mr Burnett would like to have a bit of a think to himself.”

He gave the boy a warm pressure of his hand, and then strode out of the cabin, his example being followed the next moment by Poole, whose action was almost the same as his father’s, the exception being that he quickly caught hold of the middy’s hand and held it for a moment before he hurried out.

Then and then only did Fitz’s face go down upon his hands, while a low groan of misery escaped his lips.

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