“Yes, when you declared it was as if there was a dead man in the place.”
“Yes, sir; I knowed there was something wrong.”
“Well, then, stupid,” cried the lad, in a passion, “there’s no live man here.”
“No, sir,” said Tom, shaking his head.
“Well, then,” cried Murray, passionately, striking his open palm with the blue and gold inlaid blade of his dirk, “where’s your dead man?”
“Can’t say, sir,” replied the man, speaking very slowly. “Seems to me it’s a mystery.”
“A mystery?” cried the middy, looking round at the pictures and other decorations of the place and addressing them as if they were sentient, listening creatures. “Here’s a big six-foot strongly-built British sailor talking to his officer like an old charwoman about mysteries! You, Tom May, if ever you dare to talk such nonsense to me again, I’ll punch your silly head.”
“Beg pardon, your honour,” said the man coolly, “but don’t the articles o’ war say something ’bout officers not being allowed to strike their men?”
“Bother the articles of war!” roared Murray, leaping at the man, seizing him by the shoulders, and shaking him to and fro with all his might. “Bother the articles of war!” he repeated, breathless from his exertions. “They don’t say anything about knocking an idiot’s head off!”
“No, sir,” said the man humbly and respectfully; “not as I knows on.”