“The gun’s done for, father, and the gunboat’s ashore,” shouted Poole, through his hands.
“Oh. I heard that the enemy had gone on the rocks. And what about the propeller?”
“Oh, we fouled it, father,” said Poole coolly. “That’s right,” said the skipper, in the most unconcerned way. “I thought you would. There, look sharp and come aboard. There’s some breakfast ready, but I began to think you didn’t mean to come. What made you so long?”
He did not wait to hear the answer, but began giving orders for the lowering of another boat which he was about to send down to communicate with the mate.
“I say,” said Fitz, grinning, “your dad seems in a nice temper. He’s quite rusty.”
“Yes,” said Poole, returning the laugh. “I suppose it’s because we stopped out all night. There, get out! He’s as pleased as can be, only he won’t make a fuss. It’s his way.”
The day glided on till the sun was beginning to go down. Messages had passed to and fro from the watchers, who had kept an eye upon the gunboat, which was still fast.
Fitz, after a hearty meal, being regularly fagged out, had had three or four hours’ rest in his bunk, to get up none the worse for his night’s adventure, when he joined Poole, who had just preceded him on deck.
He came upon the skipper directly afterwards, who gave him a searching look and a short nod, and said abruptly—
“All right?”