“Now if you’re one o’ them young limbs o’ drummer boys, playing a game on me——”
“I’m not,” Jerry declared.
“Wot do you want here?”
“I want to join the army.”
“The army! Get out, then. Don’t you go taking this for any landlubber mess. Avast with you! Port your helm and sheer off.” And the clutch loosened.
“But where am I, please?” Jerry asked, bewildered.
“Wait till I put a half hitch on you and I’ll tell you; for if you’re putting up a game you’ll be hanged to the yardarm at sunrise. That’s regulations. Lie quiet, now. I’m hungry and I’m a reg’lar bloomin’ cannerbal.”
A cord was deftly passed about Jerry’s slim waist, tightened, tied, and apparently fastened to his captor also—who growled again as if satisfied. Flint and steel were struck, and a lantern lighted—a lantern enclosed in a wire netting—a battle lantern. It was flashed upon Jerry, and at the same time flashed upon his captor. He saw a very red face—a dirty face but a good-natured face, under a shock of tow hair; and a pair of broad shoulders encased in a heavy woollen jacket. Two bright blue eyes surveyed him.
“A bloomin’ bloody stowaway,” the man growled, not unkindly. “That’s wot! Well, wot you want to know?”
“Where am I, if this isn’t the army?” Jerry pleaded.