"You're not telling me you mean to fight him?" asked Mr. Sturge, convinced by this time that he had to deal with a lunatic.
"Pardon me." The Major bowed with grave irony. "This conversation, sir, was of your seeking. I have paid you, it appears, too high a compliment in assuming that you would understand what follows when a gentleman is called the son of a—!"
Mr. Sturge shrugged his shoulders and walked forward to seek Ben Jope, whom he found by the forecastle hatchway engaged in slicing a quid of black tobacco.
"You'll excuse me," he asked, "but that rum little man who calls himself Hymen—where did he escape from?"
"Escape!" Ben Jope sprang to his feet, but catching sight of the Major, who had resumed his pensive attitude by the bulwarks, sat down again heavily. "Lord, but you frightened me! That Hymen don't escape; not if I know it. He's the apple of my eye, or becoming so. Now I tell you," said Mr. Jope, beginning to slice again at his tobacco, then pausing to look up with engaging frankness; "you took my fancy terrible for a few minutes; but, come to see you by daylight, you're too pink."
Mr. Sturge might have pressed for an explanation; but at this juncture the first lieutenant of H.M.S. Poseidon came forward, still with his painted scowl, and demanded to know, since the Vesuvius could not reach Portsmouth for many hours, when supper would be served, and what bedroom accommodation she provided.
CHAPTER XVI.
FAREWELL TO ALBION!
Shortly after noon next day, the wind still holding from the N.N.W., though gradually falling light, the Vesuvius dropped anchor off Spithead, and Captain Crang at once ordered a boat's crew to convey the captives ashore.