“What’s the good o’ going then?” said the boatswain. “Why not go now?”
“That’s just what I was a-thinking,” said Billy Waters; “but I s’pose the skipper knows best.”
Preparations were made and arms served round. The boat was to go under command of the gunner, and each man was supplied with a ration of biscuits, to be supplemented by a tot of grog before starting, which was to be just at dark, and the men, being all eager to find their young officer, who was a great favourite, lounged about waiting the order, a most welcome one on account of the grog; but just as the grog was being mixed in its proper proportions the gunner was sent for to the cabin, where the lieutenant was still bathing his eye.
“Has that grog been served out, Waters?”
“No, your honour; it’s just a-going to be done.”
“Go and stop it.”
“Stop it, your honour? The men’s grog?”
“Go and stop it, I say,” cried the lieutenant irascibly. “I shall not send the expedition to-night.”
Billy Waters went back and gave the order in the hearing of the assembled crew, from whom a loud murmur arose—truth to tell more on account of the extra tot of grog than the disappointment about searching for Hilary; but the latter feeling dominated a few minutes later, and the men lay about grumbling in no very pleasant way.
“I say it’s a shame, that’s what I says it is,” growled Tom Tully, “and it ought to be reported. For half a button I’d desart, and go and look for him myself—that’s about what I’d do.”