Bush, looking at Hornblower revolving under the sparkling stream, was conscious of a prickling under his shirt in his heavy uniform coat, and actually had the feeling that it might be pleasurable to indulge in that sort of shower bath, however injurious it might be to the health.
“’Vast pumping!” yelled Hornblower. “Avast, there!”
The hands at the pumps ceased their labours, and the jet from the hose died away to a trickle, to nothing.
“Captain of the waist! Secure the pump. Get the deck swabbed.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower grabbed his towel and came trotting back along the maindeck. He looked up at the group of officers with a grin which revealed his exhilaration and high spirits.
“Dunno if it’s good for discipline,” commented Roberts, as Hornblower disappeared; and then, with a tardy flash of insight, “I suppose it’s all right.”
“I suppose so,” said Buckland. “Let’s hope he doesn’t get himself a fever, checking the perspiration like that.”
“He showed no sign of one, sir,” said Bush; lingering in Bush’s mind’s eye was the picture of Hornblower’s grin. It blended with his memory of Hornblower’s eager expression when they were discussing what Buckland had best do in the dilemma in which he found himself.
“Ten minutes to eight bells, sir,” reported the quartermaster.