“Not exactly, sir; but he laughs at everything. If I send him to the mast-head, he goes up laughing; if I call him down, he comes down laughing; if I find fault with him, he laughs the next minute: in fact, sir, he does nothing but laugh. I should particularly wish, sir, that you would speak to him, and see if any interference on your part—”
“Would make him cry—eh? better to laugh than cry in this world. Does he never cry, Mr Markitall?”
“Yes, sir, and very unseasonably. The other day, you may recollect, when you punished Wilson the marine, whom I appointed to take care of his chest and hammock, he was crying the whole time; almost tantamount—at least an indirect species of mutiny on his part, as it implied—”
“That the boy was sorry that his servant was punished; I never flog a man but I’m sorry myself, Mr Markitall.”
“Well, I do not press the question of his crying—that I might look over; but his laughing, sir, I must beg that you will take notice of that. Here he is, sir, coming up the hatchway. Mr Templemore, the captain wishes to speak to you.”
Now the captain did not wish to speak to him, but, forced upon him as it was by the first-lieutenant, he could do no less. So Mr Templemore touched his hat, and stood before the captain, we regret to say, with such a good-humoured, sly, confiding smirk on his countenance, as at once established the proof of the accusation, and the enormity of the offence.
“So, sir,” said Captain Plumbton, stopping in his perambulation, and squaring his shoulders still more, “I find that you laugh at the first-lieutenant.”
“I, sir?” replied the boy, the smirk expanding into a broad grin.
“Yes; you, sir,” said the first-lieutenant, now drawing up to his full height; “why you’re laughing now, sir.”
“I can’t help it, sir—it’s not my fault; and I’m sure it’s not yours, sir,” added the boy, demurely.