“I say, don’t be so waxy because you are disappointed.”
“I beg, sir, that you will not address your remarks to me; and please recollect that you and yours are not out of the wood yet.”
“All right; only look here; your lads have had a long row, and you have got another one back. Let’s give the poor fellows a bucket of water, and I’ll pour a bottle of our lime-juice in and some syrup. It makes a splendid drink. Look there; those two red herrings of yours have begun licking their dry lips at the very thought of it.”
The midshipman seemed to give himself a snatch, but he glanced at the two marines, and then turned and looked over into the boat, for he was horribly thirsty himself.
“Dry, my lads?” he said. “Like some water?”
“Thankye, sir!” came in chorus, and Rodd called out at once—
“Joe Cross! Bucket of fresh water—two pannikins! And is the steward there?”
“Ay, ay, sir!”
“Two bottles of lime-juice and some syrup for the boat’s crew and marines.”
Just then Uncle Paul’s head appeared above the cabin hatch, and he stepped on deck, coming forward to where the two lads were, Rodd smiling and good-humoured, the middy wearing the aspect of the celebrated dog which had been pelted with big marrow-bones, upon each of which reposed a thick juicy bit of beef.