“Guess it’s hot enough down here.”
Mark gave vent to a sigh of relief as he turned away, went aft, and below into the cabin to bend over Mr Russell, who, still perfectly insensible, was sleeping, as Tom Fillot said, “as quiet as a babby.”
Mark sighed, and the sight of his brother officer took away his appetite; but feeling the necessity of eating and drinking to keep up his strength, he sat down and began, and after the first few mouthfuls felt better, and made a hearty meal.
There’s something wonderfully cheering in a good meal, and though only a boy, still the midshipman felt like a new man as he went on deck, ready for anything now, and determined to make a brave fight against any odds of enemy or weather to get his prizes under the wing of the Nautilus, or into port.
Everything on deck looked cheery and encouraging. The men were in excellent spirits, and ready to salute him. Their hurts were better, and though the bruises visible did not improve their personal appearance, they looked in working or fighting trim, and ready for anything if he gave the word.
Mark’s heart swelled with elation, and he was ready to give the big black, whose absurd name of Soup had already ceased to sound nonsensical, a friendly nod, to which the great fellow responded with a regular man-o’-war’s man’s bow and scrape.
“How’s the wound, Soup?” cried Mark, touching the bandage.
“All righ’!” was the reply, with a laugh, for nearly everything was all right with the freed slave now.
“And how are the people?”
“All righ’!” he cried again, as Mark waved his hand towards the negroes. Then, as the young officer moved forward, the black drew the cutlass he wore, shouldered arms, and began to march behind his leader, as if ready to use the blade when ordered.