“Boo! clever. He’s getting well, is he? You’re always sneaking about in the dark. Why, if I’d been wounded I should be proud of my scars.”
“Should you?” said Mark, passing his hand over his bald head and scorched eyebrows. “Well, I’m not, and I shan’t care about showing myself till my hair’s grown.”
“Look here, I’ll get the armourer to make you a wig out of some oakum.”
“Bob Howlett, I’m strong enough to lick you now,” said Mark, gripping the boy’s thin arm, “so just hold your tongue. Now tell me how’s poor Mr Russell?”
“Coming round fast. Whitney goes about rubbing his hands when he thinks no one is looking. He’s as proud as a peacock with ten tails because he operated on Russell’s head and lifted up something, and now the poor fellow’s going on jolly. I like Russell.”
“So do I. He’s a true gentleman.”
“And I shall make him take me next row there is on. He’s sure to be wounded or something, he’s such an unlucky beggar, and then I should have to be in command.”
Mark burst out laughing.
“Now don’t be sneering and jealous,” cried Bob. “Think nobody else can capture slavers but you? Nasty slice of luck, that’s all it was. Yah! I’m sick of it.”
“Of what?”