There was a dead silence as Sydney stood brushing his hat with the sleeve of his coat, and without shrinking, for there was a curious ebullition going on in his breast. He did not look up, for he was fighting—self, and thinking about his new uniform in a peculiar way. That is to say, in connection with dirty floors, scuffles, falls, the dragging about of rough hands, etcetera.
“Do you hear what I say, sir?” continued Terry, loudly, and every neck was craned forward in the dim cockpit.
“Yes, I heard what you said,” replied Syd, huskily; and then he bit his lip and tried to force down the feeling of rage which was in his breast.
“And I heard what you said, sir,” cried Terry, ruffling up like a game-cock, and thinking to awe the new reefer and impress the lads present, over whom he ruled with a mighty hand. “You are amongst gentlemen here, and we don’t allow new greenhorns or country bumpkins to come and insult us.”
“I don’t want to insult anybody,” said Syd, in a low tone. “I want to be friends, as my father told me to be.”
“But you insulted me, sir. You said I pushed you just now.”
“So you did,” cried Sydney, a little more loudly.
“What?” cried Terry, threateningly.
“And then shammed that it was that other middy.”
A murmur of excitement ran round the mess.