“I dare say it will,” said Poole, laughing; “but you needn’t make a fuss about swallowing this little scrap of bitter powder. Come on and take it like a man.”
“Don’t bother,” said Fitz shortly, and he walked away right into the bows, climbed out on to the bowsprit, and sat down to think.
“He’s a rum chap,” said Poole, as he stood watching him, and putting the powder back into his pocket. “He makes me feel as if I liked and could do anything for him sometimes, and then when he turns cocky I begin to want to punch his head.”
Poole turned and went down into the cabin, where his father was lying in his berth looking flushed and weary, and evidently suffering a good deal.
“Well, boy,” said the skipper; “did he take his dose?”
“No, father. He’s ready to kick against everything now.”
“Well,” said the skipper shortly, “let him kick.”
Fitz was already kicking as he sat astride the bowsprit, looking out to sea and talking excitedly to himself.
“Yes,” he said, “I like them, and we have got to be very good friends; but I have got my duty to do as a Queen’s officer, and do it I will. Why, it’s the very chance. Like what people call a fatality. That’s right, I think. Just as if it were made on purpose. Of course I know that I am only a boy—well, a good big boy, almost a man; but I am a Queen’s officer, and if I speak to the men it is in the Queen’s name. And look at them too. They are not like ordinary sailors. I have not been on board this schooner and mixing with them and talking to them all this time for nothing. It was plain enough at first, and I was nearly sure, but I made myself quite. Nearly every one of them has been at some time or other in the Royal Navy—men who have served their time, and then been got hold of by the skipper to sign and serve on board his craft. They are a regular picked crew of good seamen fit to serve on board any man-of-war, and I wonder they haven’t been kept. They weren’t all trained for nothing. See how well they obey every order, as smart as smart. That means training and recollecting the old discipline. Why, if I talk to them right they won’t stop to think that I am only a middy. I shall speak to them as an officer, and it will come natural to them to obey—in the Queen’s name. It is my duty too as an officer, and as an officer it means everything—midshipman, lieutenant, captain or admiral—an admiral is only an officer, and at a time like this I am equal to an admiral—well, say captain. I don’t care, I’ll do it.—All these rough plucky chaps of course wouldn’t be afraid of me as a boy; they’d laugh at me. Of course I know that; but it will be the officer speaking—yes, the officer.”
The middy’s head began metaphorically to swell out until it seemed to grow very big indeed, making him feel quite a man—and more.