“Why, meat, of course,” cried the middy. “I don’t know,” said Poole dryly. “You see, it’s not like being ashore; but you had soup pretty well every day, and you said yourself that it tasted all right. But it doesn’t matter. It did you good.”
“Don’t you think we had better change the subject?” said Fitz sharply. “Yes; and we’ll go up aloft again. Coming?”
“Of course,” was the reply.
They turned back to go aft towards the mainmast-shrouds, Don Ramon’s followers making room for them to pass; but as they reached the part of the deck where they were going to ascend, they came upon the boatswain looking as black as thunder.
“Hullo, Butters! Anything the matter?” said Poole. “Matter!” growled the copper-faced old fellow. “Look at my deck—I mean, as much of it as you can see. I am pretty nigh sick of this! A set of jabbering monkeys; that’s about what they are.”
“Up aloft again, Poole?” cried the skipper. “Just going,” was the reply, and giving up his place by the starboard main-shrouds to Fitz, the lad ran across the deck to the port side, where he began to ascend, the pair meeting at the masthead upon equal terms. “Here, I’d give up the glass to you,” cried Poole, “but father mightn’t like it, though your eyes are as sharp or sharper than mine. I’ll give one sweep round and report to the deck, and then you shall have a turn.”
Poole passed his arm round a stay and raised the glass to his eyes, while Fitz took a turn round the rope with one leg, and waited, thinking.
“Isn’t such a bad fellow,” he said to himself, as he watched the captain’s son, “but he’s getting a little too familiar. He seems to forget sometimes that I’m an officer; but there, it doesn’t much matter, and it won’t last long.”
“Well, my lad?” came from the deck.
“All clear, father,” was the reply, and as Fitz glanced down he saw Don Ramon place the cigarette he was holding between his teeth and clap his hands, while from his crowd of followers who were looking on there ascended a loud Viva!