“Ah, you’ll see,” said Roylance, with a very serious shake of the head.
“Belt going up to the first luff,” cried little Jenkins. “Oh, my! I’m sorry for you, old fellow.”
“What’s Belton in for it?” said Bolton. “Never mind, old chap. If it’s mast-head, there’s a beautiful view.”
“And I’ll give you a bit of rope to tie yourself on with, so that you won’t fall when you go to sleep,” whispered Jenkins.
“Ah! and mind you fall when she heels over to leeward,” said Bolton, hastily; “then you’ll drop into the sea.”
“Get some biscuits for the poor beggar, Bolton,” cried Jenkins. “Perhaps he’ll be kept up there for a week!”
“You’d better look sharp,” whispered Roylance. “He don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“They’re only making fun of me,” thought Sydney, as he drew himself up, went hurriedly to where the first lieutenant was scanning the horizon with a glass, and waited till he had done, feeling very squeamish and uncomfortable the while.
He stood there for some minutes, glancing behind him once, to see, as he expected, that his tormentors were keeping an eye upon him to see the result of his interview with the great magnate, who seemed to rule the ship—after the captain had had his say.
It was painful work to stand there studying the set of the first lieutenant’s pigtail, the cock of his hat, and the seams and buttons of his coat, till the glass was lowered, tucked under this marine grand vizier’s arm, and he said angrily, as if speaking to a fish which sprang out of the water—