Mark laughed and obeyed, helping to finish the pantomime, which was quite comprehended by the two blacks, when Bob pointed to his messmate, and said:
“Here, Soup, this is the noble being who saved you.”
The man uttered a few softly liquid words, smiled, and with his eyes full of thankfulness he took a step forward, his companion imitating his acts, and dropped down on his knees before Mark’s chair.
“There,” cried Bob, “what do you say to— Oh, I say, stow that, Taters; not to him. I saved you. Don’t give him all the honour and glory.”
But his explanation was in vain. Both the poor fellows had interpreted his words to mean that Mark had saved them both, and they crouched before him, making signs that he was their lord and they his humblest slaves.
“Well! I do call this sickening,” cried Bob. “That’s just my luck. Look here, Taters. I should just like to peel you and give you three dozen, you nasty black-looking, ungrateful swab. Hi! jump up! Here comes old Staples. Now then, both of you, come along.”
He seized one with each hand by the sleeves of their duck frocks, and dragged them forward; but in an instant, they had snatched themselves free, and returned to Mark, speaking softly in their own tongue, and with a good deal of gesticulation, till Mark ended Bob’s perplexity by pointing to the lower deck, when they walked obediently after the midshipman right away to the forecastle hatch, and went below.
Five minutes later Bob was back again by his messmate’s side.
“That’s just my luck,” he said, sourly. “I beat the bush and somebody else catches the bird. Oh, here’s Mr Russell coming; we shall have the whole quarter-deck on the sick list directly.”
But all the same Bob ran across to offer the second lieutenant his arm, as he walked feebly toward where Mark was seated, and eagerly stretched out his hand to grasp that of the young brother officer who had shared the peril of what had so nearly been their last adventure.