“Yes, and three cheers for Mr Long,” shouted Bob. “Come up here, Tom, old man; you did more than I did.”
Tom Long was prevailed upon to mount the table, where he bowed again and again as the men cheered; when, as a lull came in the cheering, Billy Mustard, whose fiddle had been musically whispering to itself in answer to the well-drawn bow, suddenly made himself heard in the strain of “Rule Britannia,” which was sung in chorus with vigour, especially when the singers declared that Britons never, never, never should be slaves; which rang out far over the attap roofs of the drowsy campong.
So satisfied were the singers that they followed up with the National Anthem, which was just concluded when the resident sent one of his servants to express a hope that the noise was nearly at an end.
“Well, I think we have been going it,” said Bob Roberts, jumping down. “Come along, Tom. I’ve got two splendid cigars—real Manillas.”
Tom Long, to whom this public recognition had been extremely painful, was only too glad to join his companion on a form beneath a tree, where the two genuine Manillas were lit, and for a quarter of an hour the youths smoked on complacently, when just as the exultation of the public singing was giving way to a peculiar sensation of depression and sickness, and each longed to throw away half his cigar, but did not dare, Adam Gray came up to where they were seated, gradually growing pale and wan.
“Ah, Gray,” said the ensign, “what is it?”
“The major, sir, requests that you will favour him with your company directly.”
“My company?” cried the ensign; “what’s the matter?”
“Don’t know, sir; but I think it’s something about those slave girls. And Captain Horton requested me to tell you to come too, sir,” he continued, turning to Bob Roberts.
“We’re going to get promotion, I know, Tom,” said the middy.