Chapter Twenty Two.
The Crew of the Captain’s Gig.
There was a good deal of the schoolboy left in the young representatives of Her Majesty’s two services; not that this is strange, for a good deal of his schoolboyhood clings to a man even in middle life. Bob Roberts had a tiff with Long, made vow after vow that he would never speak to the ensign again; declaring him to be a consequential cocky scarlet pouter pigeon, with as much strut in him as a bantam.
On the other hand, Tom Long declared the middy to be a most offensive little rascal, with impertinence enough in him for a dozen men. He was determined to cut him dead—that he was, and he would have no more to do with him.
Result the very next day:
Bob Roberts hurried down into the captain’s gig, sitting there very eager and excited; for they were going to the island, and he had a plan in his head.
The captain came to the side and down the ladder, the gig was pushed off, the crew’s oars fell into the bright river with one splash, and as they did so Bob Roberts forgot all the respect due to his commander, by suddenly catching him by the arm.
“Look, look, sir. See that?”
“No, Mr Roberts,” said the captain rather sternly, “but I felt it.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Bob, saluting. “It was a great crocodile, and the splash of the men’s oars frightened it.”