“Mr Vandean,” he said, “I thank you—we all thank you for what you have done. I name you, of course, in my despatch, but it is folly to talk to you of promotion for years to come. That is certain, however, if you go on in the course you have followed since you joined my ship. I tell you, sir, that it is such lads as you who have made the words British Boy admired—I may say honoured—wherever our country’s name is known. Mark Vandean, I am proud of you, and some day I feel that your country will be as proud—proud as we all are—proud as the father and mother at home will be when they know everything about their gallant son. God bless you, my boy! A British captain should be like a father to the lads whom he commands. Heaven knows I feel so toward you.”
He stopped, with his hand on Mark’s shoulder, and the first lieutenant stepped forward, cap in hand, to wave it wildly.
“Now, my lads,” he shouted, “for Lieutenant Russell and Mr Vandean: cheer!”
They did.
“One more for our captain!”
The voices rang out again and again, and yet again. And made the water ripple round the ship, Bob Howlett afterwards declared. But five minutes after, when he was down with Mark in the middies’ berth, while the hero of the evening sat hot and quivering in every nerve, Bob uttered a contemptuous snort.
“Oh!” he cried, “what a jolly shame!”
Mark stared.
“You do get all the crumb, old chap. All that fuss over a fellow with a head of hair like yours!”
Then, as he saw the pained look in his messmate’s countenance, the tears rose in his eyes, and he gulped out,—