“Why, you caulking, miching lubber,” growled old Dick, “you had ten times as much trouble ’stowed on you as you deserved. Tell you what, my lads,” he continued, addressing a crowd of soldiers and sailors who had been discussing the event forward, “it’s this here sorter thing as makes me saddersfied to be a common sailor. Yer orficers may row and bully yer sometimes for not being smart enough; but I never knowed a orficer yet as wasn’t ready to run the same risks as the men; and when you’re down, Lor’ bless my ’art, nothin’s too good for you. ’Member the skipper coming and bringing us horindges, Joe Tomson, when we had the feckshus fever?”
“Ay, ay, mate,” growled a big sun-tanned sailor.
“Right you are, mate,” said a big sergeant. “It’s just so with us. I’ve knowed our officers run out under fire to bring in wounded men, and get shot down theirselves. You remember Captain Smithers doing that, out in China, Billy Mustard?”
“That I do,” said a fair red-faced private, with a merry look in his eyes. “He brought me in on his back. I’m waiting to see him down some day, and carry him in.”
“To be sure,” growled old Dick. “Orficers is orficers, and there ’aint one aboard this ship as wouldn’t jump overboard to save any man, even if it was such a grumbling warmint as old Sim here.”
Private Sim snarled, and showed a set of yellow teeth, as he held out the palm of his left hand to give it a severe punch with his right fist; after which ebullition he seemed to feel much better, and went and leaned over the side.
“I hope Private Gray will get better,” said Billy Mustard, who was a great favourite with the men from the fact that he was famous as a fiddler, and could rattle off anything from “Money Musk” up to “The Triumph;” and as to hornpipes, the somethingth said there wasn’t a man in the service who could touch him. Billy Mustard had won the hearts of the sailors, too, during the voyage, from the way in which he sang “The Death of Nelson,” with many another naval ditty, to which the whole forecastle could rattle out a hearty chorus. “I hope Private Gray will get better,” said Billy.
“Ah, we all hope that,” said Sergeant Lund. “Not that Adam Gray’s a friend of mine. He’s too much of a gentleman; and when he’s going through his drill, it always seems as if one was putting a young officer through his facings. Not that I wish him any harm; but if he’s a gentleman he ought to have got his commission, and kept out of the ranks.”
“Well, sergeant,” said Billy Mustard, “I don’t see that it matters much what a man is, so long as he’s ready for dooty, and I will say as Gray never sticks himself up, but does his dooty like a man.”
“Yah! he’ll turn out no good,” snarled Private Sim, looking round.