“And you did not even condescend to return the compliments I sent you, with my misplaced invitation to dinner.”
“Don’t recollect, sir.”
“Mr Rattlin, in consideration of your ignorance, I can forgive a personal affront—damme—but, by the living God, I cannot overlook disrespect to the service. You young misbegotten scoundrel! what do mean by coming to quarters undressed? Look at your trousers, sir!”
“The captain is in a passion, certainly,” thought I, as I quietly stooped to pull the offending garment down to my shoes.
“Mr Farmer, Mr Farmer, do you see the young blackguard?” said the commander. “Confound me, he is making a dressing-room of my quarter-deck—and at quarters, too—which is the same as parade. Hither, sirrah;—ho-ho, my young gentleman. Young gentleman, truly—a conceited little bastard!”
The word burnt deeply into my young heart, and caused a shock upon my brain, as if an explosion of gunpowder had taken place within my skull; but it passed instantaneously, and left behind it an unnatural calm.
“Pray, sir,” said I, walking up to him, deliberately and resolutely, “how do you know that I am a bastard?”
“Do you hear the impudent scoundrel? Pray, sir, who is your father?”
“Oh! that I knew,” said I, bursting into tears. “I bless God that it is not you.”
“To the mast-head! to the mast-head! Where’s the boatswain? start him up! start him up!”