“Yes, you do,” replied Bruce, jumping up in defiance; and there was every appearance of a disturbance, much to the delight of Jerry, who, provided that they fought, was quite indifferent which party was the victor. But a fortunate interruption took place, by the appearance of the master-at-arms.
“Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please—the lights must be put out.”
“Very well, master-at-arms,” replied one of the oldsters.
The master-at-arms took his seat on a chest close to the door of the berth, aware that a second summons, if not a third, would be requisite, before his object was obtained. In a few minutes he again put his head into the berth. “Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please. I must report you to the first-lieutenant.”
“Very well, Byfield—it shall be out in a minute.”
The master-at-arms resumes his station on the chest outside.
“Why, it’s Saturday night,” cried Bruce. “Sweethearts and wives, my boys, though I believe none of us are troubled with the latter. Forster, pass the rum.”
“I’ll pass the bottle, and you may make a bull of it, if you choose.”
“Confound it, no more grog—and Saturday night. I must drink ‘Auld lang syne,’ by Heavens.”
The master-at-arms again made his appearance. “Gentlemen, you must put the light out.”