There was a rustling sound, and a deep-toned breathing, that some rude people would have called a snore. The midshipman looked puzzled, hesitated, and then knocked again.
There came a smothered roar, like that of an angry beast.
“Beg pardon, sir.”
“Who’s that?”
“Raystoke, sir.”
“What do you want? Am I never to have a night’s rest again?”
All this in smothered tones, as if the speaker was shut up in a cupboard with a blanket over his head.
“Wouldn’t have troubled you, sir, but—”
“Smugglers in sight?”
“No, sir; it’s a cow.”