Oh, Murther!
Rodd was early on deck next morning for his bath, which consisted of so many buckets of water fresh fished up and dashed upon him by the men as a makeshift, consequent upon Captain Chubb telling him that he could not have any swims on account of the sharks. “Can’t spare you, my lad,” he had said. “But I haven’t seen a shark,” grumbled Rodd. “No, my lad, but they would very soon see you. You never know where those gentlemen are.”
So Rodd went on deck when sea and sky looked dim and a faint mist lay low upon the surface of the ocean, making everything indistinct. “She’s gone, sir; she’s gone!”
“Who’s she, and where has she gone?” said Rodd, rather sleepily.
“The Diadem, sir.”
“What, the sloop of war? Not she! You will see her come peeping out of the fog yonder before long.”
“Nay, sir; she’s gone right off, and it’s all right. My word, I wish we had got a fiddle here!”
“A fiddle! What for?”
“Hornpipe, sir. The boys are all bubbling over and don’t know how to bear themselves. Nothing like a few kicks up and down the deck to a well-played old tune, to get rid of it all.”
“Why, what are you talking about?” cried Rodd.