“You have, and no mistake. Here! come on board and have a wash while something to eat is made ready.”
“A wash!” cried Stan. “Oh yes.—I say, uncle, you look awful.”
“Do I, my boy? Humph!—I say, captain, do you carry a pocket-mirror?”
“No; but there’s a looking-glass or two in the cabins. Do you want to shave?”
“What! cut off my growing beard?” said Uncle Jeff fiercely. “No, nor my head either. I wanted my nephew to see his face.”
“My face?” cried Stan, colouring invisibly—that is to say, the red was hidden by the black. “Is it very bad?”
He glanced at Blunt as he spoke.
“Well,” was the reply, “did you ever see a sweep?”
The hospitality on board the gunboat embraced the attentions of a doctor as well as refreshments, and he had a busy hour with cuts and burns before the night closed in, with sailors to keep the watch over those who slept the sleep of utter exhaustion; though ward was needless, for the remnants of the piratical gang were scattered far and wide, completely crushed.