“Not yet, Strake.”
“Done with him, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like a word with you in private.”
The privacy consisted in a walk to the upper gun, where, after a look round in the calm sunlit sea in search of the frigate, the boatswain said—
“Enemy’s here, sir.”
“Where?” cried Syd, excitedly, looking out to sea again. “I was up at the flagstaff an hour ago, and Mr Terry’s there now. He has not given the alarm.”
“Didn’t look in the right place,” said the boatswain, oracularly. “I did.”
“Don’t play with me, Strake; where is he?”
“In the tubs, sir.”