Tom Long rose, and came at him menacingly, and Bob laughed in his face. “I say, Long, old man,” he said, “what a jolly pair of fools we are to quarrel about nothing at all.”
“I never want to quarrel,” said Tom Long, stiffly, for the other’s mirth took him aback, “but when a fellow behaves like a coward—”
“In the face of the enemy,” interposed Bob, “kick him out of the service, military or naval, eh? Look here, Tommy.”
“For goodness’ sake, sir, don’t call me by that objectionably childish name,” cried the ensign. “How should you like to be called Bobby?”
“Not much, old boy,” said the middy; “but I don’t much care. Never mind, shake hands. No, don’t. Let’s do it mentally. Here’s old Ali coming, looking as black as a civilian’s hat. Hallo, Ali, old chap, ain’t you precious proud of your dear fellow-countrymen?”
“Poor fellows; poor fellows!” said Ali, sadly, as he looked from one to the other.
“Poor fellows!” said Long.
“They’re a jolly set of sharks, with stings in their tails, that’s what they are,” said Bob.
“The poor fellows have been crushed down by cruel governments, and made the slaves of piratical rajahs and cowardly sultans,” cried Ali, indignantly. “They are a brave set of fellows, and they are only fighting against you because they are set on by their leaders.”
“Then all I can say is,” said Bob, “that I should like to have a pop at their leaders. But cheer up, old chap, you needn’t look so down-hearted.”