“And ought to have Reston to him. We’re in a nice hole, Murray, upon my word! Have you got a morsel of prog? My lads are starving.”
“We’ve plenty, sir.”
“Hah! Then feed us, dear lad, and then we shall be ready to fight or do anything you like. But hullo! What about Dick Roberts?”
“Wounded, but getting better. He’s in the next room, doing nothing but sleep.”
“Next room! Upon my word you middies are pretty sybarites! Well, let us have this prog.”
“Come down to the dining-room,” said Murray. “Mr Anderson cannot do better than sleep.”
“Dining-room!” said the second lieutenant in a whisper, as they left the chamber. “What next? You haven’t got such a thing as a cellar of wine on the premises, have you, my lad?”
“Yes, sir,” said Murray, laughing; “but that’s where we have our powder magazine.”
“Give us something to eat, then, my dear fellow, and then let’s see if we can’t use the powder to blow up the two schooners which are pounding the Seafowl. Hark! They’re at it still.”
“No,” said Murray, listening; “those must be the Seafowl’s guns.”