“There now, Jerry, what a mess I might have been in! Where’s the key?”
“I have not got it,” replied Jerry; “the captain saw me on the quarter-deck, and took the bunch of keys away with him.”
“What! is the captain gone away? I do declare,—now, this is too bad,” cried Prose, in a rage.
“Too bad!—why, man, don’t be angry—it’s a distinction. Between me and the first-lieutenant, you are created a knight of the Grand Cross. I gave you the collar, and he has given you the order, which I recommend you to comply with, without you wish further elevation to the mast-head.”
“Mr Prose, the first-lieutenant wants you, immediately,” said the quarter-master, who had been despatched to him again.
“Why, how can I go up with a dog’s collar round my neck?”
“I’m sorry, very sorry indeed, Prose. Never mind—say it was me.”
“Say it was you! Why, so it was you. I’d better say that I’m sick.”
“Yes, that will do. What shall your complaint be?—a lockjaw? I’ll go up and tell Mr Bully—shall I?”
“Do—tell him I’m not well.”