“Don’t banter, Roy,” cried Terry. “The young gentleman is strange, and you take advantage, and begin to be funny. Don’t you take any notice of him. By the way though, I didn’t introduce you. This is Mr William Roylance, Esquire. Father’s not a captain, but a bishop, priest, or deacon, or something of that kind. Very good young man, but don’t you lend him money! I say, see that door?”
“Yes,” said Sydney, looking at a dimly-seen opening barely lit by a smoky lanthorn.
“Thought I’d show you. Hot water baths in there if you ever wash.”
“Ever wash?” said Syd, wonderingly.
“Yes. We do here—a little—when there is any water. Rather particular on board a frigate. Here we are.”
He led the way to where in a dimly-lit hole, so it seemed to Sydney, about half a dozen youths were seated beneath a swinging lanthorn busily engaged in some game, which consisted in driving a penny-piece along a dirty wooden table, scoured with lines and spotted with blackened drops of tallow.
The coming, as it seemed, of a visitor, in all the neatness and show of a spick and span new uniform, caused a cessation of the game and its accompanying noise; but before a word was spoken, Sydney had taken in at a glance the dingy aspect of the place, and had time to consider whether this was the midshipmen’s berth.
“Here you are, gentlemen,” shouted Terry. “Your new messmate: the boy with a belt on.”
“Let him take it off then,” cried a voice. “Come on, youngster, here’s room. Got any money?”
Syd thought of his new uniform and felt disposed to shrink, but he did not hesitate. He had an idea that if he was to share the mess of the lads about him, the sooner he was on friendly terms the better, so he nodded and went forward; but his pace was increased by a sudden thrust from behind, which sent him against the end of the table, and his hat flying to the other side.