“Oh, you mean me,” said Mark, quietly.
“That I don’t,” cried Bob. “I call you lucky.”
“Me?”
“Yes; look at the fun you’ve had all to yourself. A regular cruise.”
“Fun?”
“Yes, fun. Captain of the schooner; capturing another; complimented by the skipper; praised by old hooks and staples; and of course, just when I thought I was going to distinguish myself, and charged down into that dark cabin and made sure I’d captured the skipper at the point of my sword—”
“Dirk,” said Mark.
“Well, dirk, if you like—of course it must turn out to be you. Bah! it’s disgusting.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is, I say,” cried Bob, angrily. “You get all the fat and gravy of life. And now you’re as good as wounded, and you’ll be named in the skipper’s despatch, and—but oh, what a lark!” cried Bob, bursting into a roar of laughter. “What a jolly old fifth of November guy you do look!”