“Lieutenant Branscombe says will you step down and join us for a few minutes, Mr Lindon.”
“Does he want me, sir?”
“Only to partake of a little refreshment this thirsty night.”
“That’s right,” cried. Rodd. “You go on down with uncle. I’ll see that your lads have plenty.”
“Er—er—no grog, please,” said the middy hastily.
“Not a drop, honour bright,” said Rodd, laughing. “You shan’t be mastheaded for that;” and he clapped the young officer merrily on the back.
The stay would have been longer, but the darkness was coming on fast; still it had been long enough for all to become the best of friends, and when the two officers came on deck it was to find the two crews engaged in a hearty game of repartee, the schooner’s men casting jokes down into the boat, and the man-of-war’s men hurling them back.
“Yes, a very smart crew, Captain Chubb,” said the lieutenant, “but if it hadn’t been for the doctor’s papers here, we should have been obliged to lighten you of about half-a-dozen, for you know you have no business to have such men as this whilst his Majesty runs short.”
Just then the two lads were talking together hard.
“Oh, don’t you take any notice of that, Harding. Cocky, you called it. You should drop that; it’s too schoolboy-like. You know a fellow may be only a midshipman, still the ship’s roll does call him a man, and when a fellow’s an officer in command of a lot of sailors, he’s obliged to put it on a bit, else he’d never be able to keep them in their places.”