Chapter Seven.
Getting the worst of it.
Another morning passed, and the schooner was once more sailing away through the beautiful calm blue see, heaving in long slow rollers which seemed to be doing their best to rock the injured prisoner back to a state of health.
He had breakfasted and been dressed by his sea-going attendant, and was so much better that he was more irritable than usual, while the skipper’s son met all his impatient remarks without the slightest resentment.
The result was that the sick middy in his approach to convalescence was in that state called by Irish folk “spoiling for a fight,” and the more patient Poole showed himself, the more the boy began to play the lord.
It was not led up to in any way, but came out in the way of aggravation, and sounded so childish on this particular occasion that Poole turned his head and crossed to the cabin-window to look out, so that Fitz should not see him smile.
“I have been thinking,” he said, with his back to the boy’s berth, “that while we are sailing along here so gently, I might get some of old Butters’ tackle.”
“Who’s Butters?” said Fitz shortly.