“For all of us, my lad,” said Mark, quickly, and he walked forward again, half amused at his own importance, and thinking of how only the other day he was at school, and captain of the second cricket eleven, instead of commodore of two schooners.
As he reached the forecastle hatch he stopped short, for a heavier breathing than usual caught his ear, and, peering forward, it was to see that Soup and the naked black who shared his watch were both fast asleep.
Flushing up with anger, the midshipman took his heavy glass from under his arm to tap both blacks on the head: but second thoughts stayed his hand, and he glanced forward to see Tom Fillot’s figure dimly as he leaned over the bulwark staring away ahead.
“They ought to be punished,” he thought; “but, poor fellows, they’re tired out. I will not be hard on them.”
Stepping to the back of the cask, he reached over to scoop up some of the water with his right hand to splash over them, and wake them up unseen, and then he felt quite a shock, for his hand did not touch water.
He thought the cask was filled right up. Then he was sure of it. Yes, filled quite full. Softly reaching over a little more, he tried again, but still could not reach.
“It’s more than half empty,” he said to himself; and, listening intently, he could hear a trickling sound, and then a faint splash somewhere below.
The lad’s heart began to throb heavily, and stepping away from the hatch, he walked on tiptoe to where Tom Fillot stood close to the bowsprit, and laid his hand upon the man’s shoulder.
Tom Fillot started round fiercely.
“Oh! you, sir,” he said in a tone of relief. “I thought—”