The Black Bar

George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

Reading edition

“Does it show, Tom?”

“Want me to tell you the hull truth, sir?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hair’s all singed off, sir, and you ain’t got a bit a’ eyebrow or eyelash left.”

Mark groaned.

“But they’ll all grow again, sir,” cried the sailor, eagerly, “and it might ha’ been worse.”

“Couldn’t, Tom. It does smart so.”

“But s’pose your whiskers had growed, sir. Why, it would ha’ took all them off too.”

“Don’t—don’t talk, man,” cried Mark impatiently. “Only try if you can see what’s going on. How was it we didn’t see the Nautilus before?”

“She must ha’ come round some pynte sudden-like, and took ’em on the hop, sir. We couldn’t make her because we can only see just astarn. They’re luffing a bit aboard the Naughtylass to fire. There she goes.”

Almost as he spoke there was a white puff of smoke, a shot came skipping along the surface and then went right over the schooner, and splashed in the sea beyond.

“Hadn’t we better hyste them colours out o’ winder?” said Tom.

“What for?” said Mark, trying to suppress the manifestations of pain which would keep showing.

“They’ll think we’ve surrendered and cease firing.”

“But that would be helping the schooner to escape.”

“Why, of course, sir,” cried Tom, slapping his leg; “that wouldn’t do no good. I was only thinking of its being onpleasant to sit here and be shot at by one’s own messmates. But it don’t matter; they can’t hit very often.”

Mark glanced up at the skylight, to see if they were being watched, and had ample proof of that being the case, for he could see the skipper looking down at him.

Directly after the man walked away, and they heard him giving some orders, which were followed by a quick trampling, and directly after, to the lad’s annoyance and disgust, the cabin was partially darkened by a sail being hung down over the stern.

“To keep us from seeing what is going on,” grumbled Dick Bannock.

“No,” said Mark; “to keep us from signalling.”

But though they could not see, they could hear, and they all sat listening with intense excitement as shot followed shot, and the schooner lay so much over to one side that it was evident that she was carrying a very heavy press of sail, and that the slaver captain was straining every nerve to escape.

“Now, then,” cried Mark, “be ready for a rush either at the door or up through the skylight, in case the boats board. We can then take the Yankee between two fires.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Tom; “strikes me, begging your pardon, sir, as some of us aboard the Naughtylass is terrible bad shots. I want ’em to hit us—forrard, o’ course; not here.”

“They could hit fast enough,” said Mark, petulantly, for he was in great pain, “only they are firing at the rigging, so as not to injure the slaves.”

“Course. I forget that, sir; only if they don’t bring down a spar, and the beggars escape again, where are we?”

Just at that moment there was a rattling and thumping at the cabin door, as if something was being removed; and as the prisoners listened, the skipper’s voice was heard at the skylight.

“Below there!” he cried. “Ah, it’s of no use. I’m covering yew with this pistol. Look here, I’ve got a boat alongside ready; that door’s a-going to be opened, and one of yew will come out a time, and tumble into the boat. One at a time, mind; and if there’s any show o’ fighting, we’ll shoot you down without mercy. Do yew hear?”

“Yes, I hear,” said Mark bitterly.

“Soon as yew’re all over the side, we’ll cut yew adrift; and when yew’re skipper picks yew up, yew may tell him that I’ll throw every nigger overboard before he shall take us, and run the schooner aground and blow her up this time.”

“You can give your message when Captain Maitland has you safely in irons, sir,” said Mark, stoutly.

“Thankye,” said the skipper; and at that moment, in obedience to an order previously given, the cabin door was dragged open.

“What d’yer say to a rush, sir?” whispered Tom Fillot.

He had hardly uttered the words, when there was a fresh crashing noise, a heavy report, and a splintering of wood, accompanied by a strange rustling sound. The door was clapped to again and fastened, and as there was a rush of feet, a shouting of orders, and the sound of axes being used, the schooner swung round, stopped, and the prisoners set up a cheer.

“Mainmast down by the board,” cried Tom Fillot, slapping his leg. “We can aim straight, sir, arter all.”

Mark forgot the smarting and throbbing from his burns on the instant, as he snatched out his dirk, for knowing as well as if he could see everything that the whole of the after-rigging was lying across the deck and dragging at the side, so that the schooner lay on the water like a gull with a broken wing, he felt that in a few minutes a couple of boats’ crews from the Nautilus would be aboard; and if there was to be any resistance, now was the time to make a diversion.

“Make ready, my lads,” he cried. “Cutlasses only. Quick!”

Just then there was a fresh crackling and breaking sound, and the skylight, through which he had meant to lead his men, was also darkened by the falling over it of a part of the great sail and the gaff; so that they were in twilight.

“Better try the door, sir,” cried Tom Fillot. “We’ll kick it out now, sir; there’s nothing behind.”

“Quick, then, quick!” cried Mark, excitedly; and the men went at it with a cheer, while the shouting of orders on deck grew more loud and angry.

“We must get out, Tom,” cried Mark, “and make a desperate effort ourselves. If the boats get here first, they will claim to have taken the schooner, and rob us of all the honour.”

“We’ll try, sir,” cried Tom. “Go it, my lads! Lay your backs into it. Soup, heave!”

But the door resisted all their efforts, and it was evident that the Americans had wedged it with a couple of pieces of wood.

“Oh, this is maddening,” cried Mark. “They mustn’t find us prisoners here below.”

“Let’s try the skylight, sir,” cried Tom Fillot; and at a word from Mark, he mounted the little table, and began to drag at the heavy canvas, so as to get it aside, but came down with a crash, as there was a flash and the report of a pistol.

“Hurt, Tom?” cried Mark, in agony, as he went down on one knee in the dim cabin, and caught at the sailor’s arm.

“Hurt, sir!” grumbled the man. “Just you lose your footing, and come down with your ribs on the edge of that table, and see if you wouldn’t be hurt.”

“But I mean shot—wounded.”

“Yah! no. He couldn’t hit a hay-stack, sir. I’m all right.”

“Let me try,” said Dick Bannock, “while he’s loading his pea-shooter.”

The man mounted the table, and began to drag at the canvas and tangle of rope, and blocks, but there was no attack made upon him, and he struggled on till he was obliged to give up with a sigh of despair.

“Can’t you do it?” cried Mark.

“No, sir, nohow. Wants someone on deck with a hax.”

“Let’s try the window again,” cried Mark; but a few minutes decided that. Hampered by the great sail hanging down, there was no exit there without cutting a way through, while those who tried would have been quite at the mercy of the men on deck.

Back at the door, they hammered and beat and thrust, trying all they knew without avail, till suddenly, as a cheer was heard alongside, one of the pieces of wood which wedged them in so securely gave way a little, then a little more, and with the tramping of feet increasing overhead, the door flew open.

Mark bounded out, but was driven back into the cabin by Bob Howlett, who forced his way in with his men, his first words shouted in the dark cabin—doubly dark to those who entered from the glaring Afric sunshine—silencing Tom Fillot and his comrades, who shrank back puzzled at first, then full of mirth and enjoyment at the midshipman’s mistake.

For, seeing in the blackened object whom he had helped to drive back into the cabin a foe of a calibre suited to his size, and one whom he could tackle, Bob Howlett shouted to his men—“Cut ’em down if they resist,” and then to Mark. “Now you slave-catching dog, surrender, or this goes through you like a spit.”

Chapter Forty One.

Fun!

“This” was, of course, Bob Howlett’s little midshipman’s dirk, a weapon worn more for ornament than use. But the boy looked as if he meant to use it, for, according to his own way of expressing himself, his monkey was up, he was bubbling over with excitement, and ready for anything. As it happened, he was exceeding his duty, for the officer in command would never have given a mere lad charge of men to make a desperate attack upon enemies who had apparently taken refuge below. But without a moment’s hesitation he bore Mark back against the bulkhead, gripping him with one hand and with the other holding the point of his dirk against the lad’s throat.

“Here, do as I do, my lads,” he shouted; and then to Mark:

“Yield, you miserable Yankee hound, or I’ll run you through.”

Excitement, the emotion and relief at finding himself among friends once more, and the prize safe, robbed Mark for a few moments of all power of speech or action; and then the absurdity of the position tickled him into the determination to hold his peace for a few minutes, and keep up the joke.

“Here,” he cried, imitating the Yankee captain’s drawl, and speaking in a husky, disguised voice, “just mind what yew’re about with that there toothpick, or yew’ll be hurting somebody if yew don’t cut yewrself.”

“Silence, you dog!” cried Bob, fiercely. “Do you surrender?”

“Eh? Dew yew mean give myself up as a prisoner?”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Then why didn’t yew say so, mister, and not talk in that windy-bag way?”

“Disarm the others, my lads,” cried Bob. “Now you sir,” he continued to Mark, “give up your sword.”

“Shan’t.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to give it up to yew. Tell ’em to send an orfycer, not one of the ship’s boys.”

“You insolent hound!”

“If yew call me a hound again, squaire, I’ll kinder punch your head,” said Mark, quietly.

“What!” cried Bob, trying to give his prisoner a shake, but shaking himself instead. “If you dare to say that again, sir, I’ll have you clapped in irons. Here, my lads, bring ’em all out, and let’s have a look at the hang-dog scoundrels.”

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

Mark gave a fair imitation of the crowing of a cock, and Bob was furious.

“How dare you, sir!” he cried. “Recollect you are prisoner to Her Majesty’s ship Nautilus.”

“Commanded by Bob Howlett, Esquire,” said Mark, in his natural tones, “Oh, I say, Bob, how you can bully and bounce!”

Bob’s hands dropped to his side, and just then a familiar voice shouted,—

“Where’s Mr Howlett?”

“Here, sir,” said Bob, dismally.

“Ah, that’s right. Nobody there, I suppose?” The voice was quite close to the door now, and a shadow was cast down into the darkened cabin.

“Oh yes, sir, there’s some one down here,” said Bob. “We haven’t taken the schooner after all.”

“What!”

“It’s all right, sir,” said Mark, stepping out on to the deck to face Mr Staples. “We took the schooner.”

“Mr Vandean! Bless me, my dear boy, I am glad to see you again. We thought you were gone. But in the name of all that’s horrible, how did you come in this state?”

“State, sir?” said Mark, who had for the moment forgotten his injuries.

“My dear boy, yes; why, you haven’t a bit of hair on face or head, and you’re black as a negro.”

“I’d forgotten, sir. It was the powder.”

“Powder! an explosion?”

“Yes, sir; no, sir.”

“Mr Vandean,” cried the lieutenant, “do you want to aggravate me?”

“No, sir,” cried Mark; and he told him hastily what had taken place.

“Lucky for you that you did stop the train,” cried the lieutenant; “why, my good sir, it was too desperate; not one of you would have been left alive. But where is Mr Russell?”

“In the cabin, sir, wounded.”

“Tut—tut—tut! Signal for the surgeon, Mr Howlett,” he cried; and Bob went off, while the lieutenant looked sharply around.

“Where are the rest of your men?”

“Dance and Grote are in the other schooner we took, sir.”

“Another? Well, this is a curious state of affairs. You are left in charge of a prize—”

“Yes, sir, and we lost her and took her again, and then captured a second prize. Dance and Grote have charge of her. Haven’t you seen her, sir?”

“No—yes. Of course, that is the vessel we sighted just before we attacked here to-day. But the other three men?”

“Don’t know, sir, unless they are prisoners in the forecastle.”

“Go and see, my lads,” cried the lieutenant; and, to the delight of their messmates, the others were set free from where they had been imprisoned.

“Then we are all accounted for,” said Mark, holding his hand to his burning face, “But where are the Yankees, sir?”

“Oh, they performed their old manoeuvre,” said the lieutenant, bitterly; “as soon as we set off from the Nautilus to board, they took to the boat they had ready trailing alongside, and made for the shore, where I hope the niggers’ll catch ’em and turn ’em into slaves. Hah, here comes Mr Whitney! Poor Russell! has he been long like this?”

“Yes, sir; all the time since the Yankees came off in their boat and surprised us.”

“Then you—you—Why, Mr Vandean, you don’t mean to say you’ve been in command all the time?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mark, modestly. “Fillot has been my first lieutenant.”

“Humph! the forecastle joker, eh?” said Mr Staples, grimly.

“No, sir, there has been no joking,” said Mark. “It has been too serious for that.”

“So I should suppose, my lad. Hah, Whitney, here’s work for you. Poor Russell again. Been insensible for days.”

“And this lad—burned?” said the doctor, sharply. “Why, Mr Vandean! why, my dear boy, what a state you’re in! Get him under an awning at once. I’ll dress your face soon.”

Mark was quite ready to walk, but he was carried and laid down under the shelter of a sail, and in a few minutes Mr Russell was laid beside him, and the doctor went down on one knee to make a careful examination.

“Very bad?” Mark heard the first lieutenant whisper.

“Bad enough,” replied the doctor. “Fracture, with a piece of bone resting upon the brain. We must get him on board the Nautilus at once.”

“Dangerous?”

“Pretty well.”

“Fatal?”

“In some hands,” said the doctor, importantly, “but we shall see.”

Mark could hardly believe it true an hour later when he was lying in a comfortable cot on board the Nautilus, with cool applications to his face and head, and a man told off to attend upon him—that man being Tom Fillot. The captain had been to see him, and shaken hands, thanking him for what he had done toward capturing the two schooners, the second, with Dance and Grote on board, being now only a few cables’ lengths away.

“We found you did not put in an appearance, Mr Vandean, so we sailed south in search of you, and a pretty dance you have led us. But you have behaved uncommonly well, my dear boy—very well, indeed.”

As soon as he could get a chance, Bob Howlett paid the patient a visit, and reported that the doctor had performed an operation upon Mr Russell’s head, and said that he had borne it very well.

“What an unlucky fellow he is,” Mark cried, as he lay there in perfect peace now that he was relieved of his responsibility, and could rest.

“Not half such an unlucky beggar as some one I know,” grumbled Bob.

“Oh, you mean me,” said Mark, quietly.

“That I don’t,” cried Bob. “I call you lucky.”

“Me?”

“Yes; look at the fun you’ve had all to yourself. A regular cruise.”

“Fun?”

“Yes, fun. Captain of the schooner; capturing another; complimented by the skipper; praised by old hooks and staples; and of course, just when I thought I was going to distinguish myself, and charged down into that dark cabin and made sure I’d captured the skipper at the point of my sword—”

“Dirk,” said Mark.

“Well, dirk, if you like—of course it must turn out to be you. Bah! it’s disgusting.”

“Nonsense!”

“It is, I say,” cried Bob, angrily. “You get all the fat and gravy of life. And now you’re as good as wounded, and you’ll be named in the skipper’s despatch, and—but oh, what a lark!” cried Bob, bursting into a roar of laughter. “What a jolly old fifth of November guy you do look!”

Chapter Forty Two.

Convalescence.

“Hallo, old mole!”

“I’m going to give you a thoroughly good licking, Bob, as soon as I get well,” said Mark, a few mornings later, on being saluted as above.

“I should like to see you do it.”

“You shall, my dear young friend. Last night it was rat; night before owl; now it’s mole.”

“Well, so you are a jolly old mole. Regular night bird.”

“Didn’t know a mole was a night bird.”

“Boo! clever. He’s getting well, is he? You’re always sneaking about in the dark. Why, if I’d been wounded I should be proud of my scars.”

“Should you?” said Mark, passing his hand over his bald head and scorched eyebrows. “Well, I’m not, and I shan’t care about showing myself till my hair’s grown.”

“Look here, I’ll get the armourer to make you a wig out of some oakum.”

“Bob Howlett, I’m strong enough to lick you now,” said Mark, gripping the boy’s thin arm, “so just hold your tongue. Now tell me how’s poor Mr Russell?”

“Coming round fast. Whitney goes about rubbing his hands when he thinks no one is looking. He’s as proud as a peacock with ten tails because he operated on Russell’s head and lifted up something, and now the poor fellow’s going on jolly. I like Russell.”

“So do I. He’s a true gentleman.”

“And I shall make him take me next row there is on. He’s sure to be wounded or something, he’s such an unlucky beggar, and then I should have to be in command.”

Mark burst out laughing.

“Now don’t be sneering and jealous,” cried Bob. “Think nobody else can capture slavers but you? Nasty slice of luck, that’s all it was. Yah! I’m sick of it.”

“Of what?”

“Hearing the fellows puffing and blowing you up. You’ll go pop like a soap bubble one of these days.”

Mark laughed good-humouredly.

“Anyone would think you had done wonders, and were going to be promoted to admiral instead of being only a middy who has to pass his examination years hence, and then going to be plucked for a muff, for I know more navigation than you do. Look here, Guy Fawkes: when the sun is in right declination forty-four degrees south, how would you find the square root of the nadir?”

“Put your head a little nearer, Bob; I can’t hit out quite so far.”

“Hit—hit me? Why, you bald-headed, smooth-faced— No, I won’t jump on you now you’re down. I’ll be bagdadibous, as the chap with a cold in his head said through his nose. Favourite of fortune, I forgive you.”

“Thankye.”

“Because I shall get my whack of the prize-money same as you, old chap.”

“Ah, how are all the slaves?”

“Nice and clean. They’ve all been white-washed.”

“Get out.”

“Well, I mean the holds, and they eat and drink and lie about in the sun basking like black tom-cats with their wives and kittens. I wish they wouldn’t be so jolly fond of lying down on the deck like door-mats, and asking you to wipe your shoes on ’em.”

“They don’t.”

“No, poor beggars, but they’re so delighted that they’re just like pet dogs. Seem as if they couldn’t make enough of you.”

“Got any news, Bob?”

“No. Leastwise, not much,” said Bob, taking out his knife and sharpening it on his boot, which was a sign that he was going to cut his initials somewhere, to the great detriment of her Majesty’s ship’s fittings and boats.

“It’s rather dull down here sometimes.”

“Then why don’t you come on deck?”

“I’d—I’d rather wait a bit,” said Mark, sadly.

“Perhaps it would be best. You do look such a rum ’un. I know. Capital idea. I’ll ask the ship’s tailor to make you a Turkish costume, white. Your bare head would look all right then. What’ll you have—a fez or a turban? Say fez; your complexion would look well with the scarlet.”

Bob joked, Mark read, and trusted to his friend for reports, and meanwhile the two schooners sailed on with their prize crews in the wake of the Nautilus. In due time Port Goldby was reached, and the freed slaves disembarked, all chattering and happy as so many girls and boys.

There had been times when Mark missed the excitement of his adventures, and agreed with Bob that it was hot and tame; but his burns rapidly healed, and he received visits from the men who had shared his troubles, and after dark stole unseen to Mr Russell’s quarters, to sit in his cabin and talk to him gently about all the past.

“You’ll have all the work to do next time, Mr Russell,” Mark used to say. “Some day I shall be the one down, but I hope I shall be with you when you command some other expedition.”

“I hope you will be with me,” said the lieutenant, feebly; “but not be so unlucky as I have been. But there: never mind past troubles. I’m getting stronger, thanks to Mr Whitney. All that time I passed insensible is to me like a long night’s rest. Mark, my lad, I hope we shall have many adventures together yet; but whether we do or no, though I am much older than you are, remember one thing: you and I must always be good friends, and some day, if ever I command a ship, I hope you will be my lieutenant.”

“Ah,” said Mark, “that’s a long way off, but I hope I may.”

Chapter Forty Three.

Mark is wanted on Deck.

“Here, Mark, old chap, the skipper wants you on the quarter-deck,” said Bob Howlett some weeks later.

“Wants me?” cried Mark, clapping his hand to his head.

“Yes.”

“Why, I heard the men piped up, and everybody’s there.”

“Yes, all of ’em. Russell’s there too, and Whitney.”

“Whitney?”

“Yes, I think the skipper’s going to have your bare head exhibited, and the doctor’s to give the men a lecture on the new growth of hair on the human skull.”

“Get out; he doesn’t want me, Bob. I shall be obliged to give you that licking.”

“No gammon, really. You are to come at once.”

“Is this serious?”

“Yes: honour.”

“But—oh, Bob, I’m such a guy.”

“You are, my boy; but we’ll forgive you. Come on.” Mark hurriedly covered as much of his disfigurement as he could with his cap, and followed his messmate on deck, where, to his horror, he found officers and men all drawn up, with the shabby port and town of Goldby glorified by the setting sun, and all beneath the quarter-deck awning bathed in a golden glow.

One of the first objects upon which his eyes lit was the young lieutenant, looking weak and pale, as he sat there in uniform for the first time during many days. Tom Fillot and the rest of the prize crew were in front, and as Mark shrinkingly marched up to where the captain was waiting, Mr Russell gave him a friendly smile, and the first lieutenant one of his frowning nods.

Mark felt miserable, for, as Bob kindly told him afterwards, he looked just like an escaped lunatic, who had jumped out of a strait waistcoat into a middy’s uniform. He felt as if the men were smiling in derision at his aspect, especially Tom Fillot and Dance, who were grinning, while Soup and Taters displayed nearly every one of their magnificent white teeth.

There was a singing in his ears too, and a sensation of giddiness; and when Mr Whitney nodded and looked hard at him, the midshipman half thought that Bob Howlett’s words were right, and that the doctor was really going to lecture upon his bald head.

Then the captain spoke, amidst the most profound silence, and Mark felt as if he were a culprit, and as ready to hang his head; but somehow he drew a deep breath and held himself up stiffly, and his eyes flashed defiance, as he said to himself, “Let them laugh if they like. I did my duty.”

“Glad to see you on deck again, Mr Vandean,” said the captain, shaking hands, and speaking in his clear, penetrating tones. “I know that you have felt a little shrinking naturally, sir, but no British sailor need be ashamed of scars received in an honourable service.”

“Thank you, sir,” murmured Mark, in a choking voice, and his eyes looked his gratitude.

“I sent for you, Mr Vandean, because I felt that you ought to hear an announcement I have to make to the whole crew of her Majesty’s sloop Nautilus.”

He paused for a moment or two, and whispered to Mr Staples, who was close behind him. Then he nodded, and went on:

“The two schooners so gallantly taken, lost, and retaken by the brave little prize crew I sent on board, have been condemned and sold. They are beautiful little well-formed vessels, and have made a splendid price.—Silence!”

There had been a low murmur, which was instantly checked.

“Then for head money on one hundred and eighty-seven poor black fellow-creatures rescued from what to them were floating hells, there will also be a handsome sum to add, and make a capital distribution of prize-money amongst the smartest crew a captain in Her Majesty’s service could wish to command.”

Here there was an attempt at a cheer, but the captain held up his hand.

“I have a few more words to say, and they are these. We all owe our thanks to those officers and men who have turned what had so far been a barren time into one rich in action. There is not a man among us who would not gladly have done his duty as well; and no doubt—it shall not be my fault if they do not—others will have plenty of opportunities for distinguishing themselves. But I feel that we ought all to publicly thank these officers and men for the brave fight they made on our behalf. You will be glad to hear that I have strongly recommended my gallant friend Mr Russell for promotion, which he has won by his brave efforts and his sufferings in our great humane fight to wipe away the sinister black bar from the world’s shield of civilisation. Stop, my lads; you shall cheer directly. Dance, Fillot, and Bannock stand next for promotion, and I thank them publicly for setting so brave an example with their messmates, of patient self-denial, obedience, and sterling British manly pluck in a good cause.”

Another murmur ran along the ranks, and Mark saw that Tom Fillot was hanging his head and colouring like a schoolboy, while Dance could not stand still. Almost at the same moment Mark caught Bob Howlett’s eyes, which twinkled with mischief and seemed to say, “Your turn now.”

“One more word,” said the captain, “and I have done.”

He paused, and in the intense, painful silence the glowing quarter-deck, with its many faces, seemed to swim round Mark Vandean.

“There is one whom I have not named,” said the captain—“Mr Vandean.”

Here, unchecked, there was a tremendous cheer, in which the officers joined, and the captain smiled, while now Mark’s head did hang a little, and he trembled.

Then, as there was silence once more, the captain turned to him.

“Mr Vandean,” he said, “I thank you—we all thank you for what you have done. I name you, of course, in my despatch, but it is folly to talk to you of promotion for years to come. That is certain, however, if you go on in the course you have followed since you joined my ship. I tell you, sir, that it is such lads as you who have made the words British Boy admired—I may say honoured—wherever our country’s name is known. Mark Vandean, I am proud of you, and some day I feel that your country will be as proud—proud as we all are—proud as the father and mother at home will be when they know everything about their gallant son. God bless you, my boy! A British captain should be like a father to the lads whom he commands. Heaven knows I feel so toward you.”

He stopped, with his hand on Mark’s shoulder, and the first lieutenant stepped forward, cap in hand, to wave it wildly.

“Now, my lads,” he shouted, “for Lieutenant Russell and Mr Vandean: cheer!”

They did.

“One more for our captain!”

The voices rang out again and again, and yet again. And made the water ripple round the ship, Bob Howlett afterwards declared. But five minutes after, when he was down with Mark in the middies’ berth, while the hero of the evening sat hot and quivering in every nerve, Bob uttered a contemptuous snort.

“Oh!” he cried, “what a jolly shame!”

Mark stared.

“You do get all the crumb, old chap. All that fuss over a fellow with a head of hair like yours!”

Then, as he saw the pained look in his messmate’s countenance, the tears rose in his eyes, and he gulped out,—

“Only my gammon, old chap. I’m as proud of you as any of ’em, and I only wish now that we were two great gals.”

“Why?” cried Mark, wonderingly, as he caught the hands extended to him by his friend.

“Because then I could hug you. But I can’t: it would be so Frenchy.”

“Fists’ll do,” said Mark, gripping Bob’s fingers with all his might.

“Yes, and we’re to stick to each other always.”

“Always.”

“Through thick and thin.”

“Chums to the end.”

“To the very end, Bob.”

“Yah!” roared the latter, angrily, as he picked up a bread tray to throw at a head he had seen through his dim eyes watching them intently, “How dare you sneak in, sir to watch what’s going on? Why, I thought it was one of the men. Come here and stand on your head, ugly. You can’t tell tales of how stupid and choky I’ve been.”

The chimpanzee came forward out of the semi-darkness, and squatted down to have its ears pulled; while, as soon as he grew more calm, and his heart beat regularly once again, Mark sat down to pen a long, long letter to that best of places—his far-off home.