“Go on, Mr Roberts,” said the resident.
“Well, sir, being English—boys—big boys, who felt like men just then—” said Bob, rather sarcastically.
“That’s not bad, Mr Roberts,” said Major Sandars, with a glance at the naval captain.
“Well, sir, as the poor girls had regularly appealed to us to protect them, and the nig— Malays, sir, whipped out their krises, we presented arms, and would have given them a peppering of snipe shot if they hadn’t sheered off when we brought the two poor weeping slave girls under the protection of the British flag, and set them free. Didn’t we, Tom?”
“Yes,” said Tom Long, looking nervously at the resident, and wondering what Rachel Linton thought about their feat.
There was a dead silence for a few moments, during which Bob Roberts wiped his streaming forehead, for he felt uncomfortably hot. Then the resident began—
“I think I am speaking the sentiments of my friends here, young gentlemen, when I say that you both behaved just as two brave British lads would be expected to behave under the circumstances.”
“Yes,” said Major Sandars, “Ensign Long, I felt sure, would not be wanting, if called upon.”
Tom Long’s face grew the colour of his best uniform.
“Very plucky act,” said Captain Horton; and he nodded in so friendly a way at the middy, that Bob felt quite beaming.