“Look here, brother Harry,” he cried; “is this my nephew Sydney, or some confounded young son of a sea-lawyer?”
“Oh, it’s Syd, sure enough,” said the captain.
“Then he’s grown into an insolent, pragmatical young cock-a-hoop upstart; and hang it, I should like to spread-eagle him till he came to his senses.”
The boy, who was peeling a scrap of walnut, gave his uncle a sidelong look and laughed.
“Ah, I would, sir, and no mistake,” cried the admiral, fiercely. “Harry, you don’t half preserve discipline in the ship. Here, Syd, it’s time you were off to sea.”
The boy took another walnut and crushed it, conscious of the fact that his father was watching him intently.
“I don’t want to go to sea, uncle,” said the boy at last, as he picked off the scraps of broken shell from his walnut.
“What?” roared the admiral. “Here you, sir, say that again.”
“I don’t want to go to sea, uncle.”
“You—don’t—want—to go—to sea, sir?”