“I heard there was a fight with a new boy,” piped out Jenkins. “Had it out with Monkey Bill and licked him. Was that your boy, bo’sun?”
“That’s him, sir. We all comes of a fighting breed; him and me and the cap’en and Master Syd here. Skipper’s awful, and I shall be sorry for the Frenchies and Spanles as he tackles. Well, Master Syd, what am I to tell the captain’s sarvant ’bout you?”
“Go and ask to see the captain,” said Syd, firmly, “and tell him that I have been having a fight, and am not fit to come.”
“Hear that?” said the boatswain, looking proudly round—“hear that, young gen’lemen? That’s Bri’sh bull-dog, that is. What do you think of your messmate now?”
The middies gave a cheer, and crowded round Syd as Terry bent over the locker to bathe his swollen face, and he looked up once, but did not say a word.
“Some says fighting among boys is a bad thing,” muttered the boatswain, as he went on deck, “and I don’t approve of it. But when one chap bullies all the rest, same as when one country begins to wallop all the others, what are you to do?”
Chapter Nineteen.
As Bo’sun Strake reached the deck, he came suddenly upon the first lieutenant, and touched his hat.