“Man-o’-war!” he had said in disgust; “a contemptible little cock-boat. They ought to have called her a boy-o’-war—a little boy-o’-war. I shall walk overboard the first time I try to stretch my legs.”
But somehow he had soon settled down on board the swift little craft with its very modest crew, and felt no small pride in the importance of his position, feeling quite a first lieutenant in his way, and for the greater part of the time almost entirely commanding the vessel.
She was just about the cut of a goodsized modern yacht, and though not so swift, a splendid sailer, carrying immense spars for her tonnage, and spreading canvas enough to have swamped a less deeply built craft.
The decks were as white as holystone could make them, the sails and the bell shone in the morning sun like gold, and there was not a speck to be seen on the cabin skylight any more than upon either of the three brass guns, a long and two shorts, as Billy Waters, who was gunner and gunner’s mate all in one, used to call them.
Upon this bright summer morning Hilary Leigh was sitting, with his legs dangling over the side and his back against a stay, holding a fishing line, which, with a tiny silvery slip off the tail-end of a mackerel, was trailing behind the cutter, fathoms away, waving and playing about in the vessel’s wake, to tempt some ripple-sided mackerel to dart at it, do a little bit of cannibalism, and die in the act.
Two had already been hauled on board, and lay in a wooden bucket, looking as if they had been carved out of pieces of solid sea at sunrise, so brilliant were the ripple marks and tints of pink and purple and grey and orange and gold—bright enough to make the gayest mother-o’-pearl shell blush for shame. Hilary Leigh had set his mind upon catching four—two for himself and two for the skipper—and he had congratulated himself upon the fact that he had already caught his two, when there was a sharp snatch, the line began to quiver, and for the next minute it was as though the hook was fast in the barbs of a silver arrow that was darting in all directions through the sea.
“Here’s another, Billy!” cried the young man, or boy—for he was on the debatable ground of eighteen, when one may be either boy or man, according to one’s acts, deeds, or exploits, as it used to say in Carpenter’s Spelling.
Hilary Leigh, from his appearance, partook more of the man than the boy, for, though his face was as smooth as a new-laid egg, he had well-cut, decisive-looking Saxon features, and one of those capital closely-fitting heads of hair that look as if they never needed cutting, but settle round ears and forehead in not too tight clustering curls.
“Here’s another, Billy,” he cried; and a stoutly built sailor amidships cried, “Cheer ho, sir! Haul away, sir! Will it be a mess o’ mick-a-ral for the lads to-day?”
“Don’t know, Billy,” was the reply, as the beautiful fish was hauled in, unhooked, a fresh lask or tongue of silvery bait put on, and the leaded line thrown over and allowed to run out fathoms astern once again.