“’Bacco, ’bacco!” they kept on shouting, as they pressed round, each taking his portion eagerly enough, but there was no snatching, till all had received a cake save the one who had been made to give way.
“There you are,” cried Carey, holding out the last, but standing on his guard so as to avoid an expected blow.
But it did not come. The black took his cake and joined the others, to go back chattering to partake of their meal, while Carey and Bostock turned to go back to the cabin.
“Now, I call that there plucky,” said the old sailor, gruffly.
“What?” said Carey, wondering.
“You hitting that walking blacking bottle twice over in the mouth. I don’t know as I should ha’ dared.”
“Plucky!” said Carey, wonderingly. “You don’t know what a fright I felt in when I did it; but I was in such a passion that I was obliged to hit something.”
“And so you did, sir, a regular smeller. I don’t believe a French or a Jarman boy would ha’ done it.”
“Nonsense, Bob.”
“Oh, no, it aren’t, my lad; it’s some sense, and it’s taught me a deal.”