“Lord, how fresh you are! She’s no more a yacht than a bull-terrier is a pet pug—she’s a torpedo-catcher. Do you mean to say you had no suspicion when that ironclad opened fire on us last night?”
“I knew there was something dark afoot. A torpedo-catcher! Is this the Swift, the boat that was seized by the Customs authorities last week, on the suspicion that she had been bought for the rebel fleet at Rio de Janeiro?”
“The same, my boy; and seeing that you took an active part in her escape, it wouldn’t be safe for you to talk about this adventure. You’ve committed high treason, or some offence as bad, and would to a dead certainty be drawn and quartered.” Here Webster broke into another fit of laughter, ending up by smacking Frank on the back. “You’re in the same boat as we are, and if she doesn’t drown you, or roll you overboard, or knock your brains out, you may live to be shot.”
“Many thanks,” said Frank, with an answering smile. “And what fate is reserved for you?”
“Oh, as for me, I’ll die of a falling chimney. You feel better now, don’t you?”
“Thanks to your cheerful predictions.”
“Then come and report yourself to our chief, and harkee, you’ll be offered a billet as captain of the cook’s galley. Take my advice, and accept it; it’s comforting, sustaining, and by far the safest place in the ship.”
They went aft, now breasting the slanting deck as the bows dipped, now bending back to the answering lift, and came up to the bridge, where the Captain gave them a surly nod, and the lady flashed a smile on them.
“The new hand, mam, come to report himself. I found him afloat in his cabin with a feeling that he was an empty nothing, but he is better now,” and Webster turned a perfectly grave face upon Hume, his voice expressing the deepest sympathy.
“I am indebted to Mr Webster for his kindness, but he is premature in classing me as a new hand.”