The admiral took snuff, and after a word or two with the middy in charge of the boat, sat gazing silently about him, while from time to time Sydney turned his eyes to find that his companion was examining him closely, and with a supercilious air which made the new addition to the midshipmen’s mess feel irritable and ready to resent any insult.
But none was offered, and the men rowed on, till after threading their way through quite a forest of masts the frigate was sighted.
“There she lies, Syd,” whispered his uncle; “as fine a craft as you need wish to see. What’s your name, youngster?”
“Michael Terry,” said the midshipman.
“Ho!” ejaculated the admiral. “Well, this is my nephew, Sydney Belton, your new messmate. I hope you’ll be very good friends.”
“I’m sure we shan’t,” said the young fellow to himself. “Too cocky for me. But we can soon cut his comb.”
“Arn’t you going to shake hands, youngsters?”
“Oh, yes, if you like,” said the youth. “There’s my hand.”
Sydney put out his, but somehow the hand-shake which followed did not seem to be a friendly one, and more than once afterwards he thought about that first grip.
“Ah, that’s right,” said the admiral; “always be good friends with your messmates.”