“Mates,” said Mr Wilson, “this is the youngster I was speaking about; I’m going to have him in my watch. He doesn’t know much; in fact, I don’t think he knows he’s born yet.”
“What’s your name, sonny?”
“Harold Milvaine.”
“Well, Harold Milvaine, have some breakfast; you look as white as a churchyard deserter.”
“Because—because I’ve such a dreadful story to tell you.”
“Well, eat first.”
Harry did so, and felt better.
“Now sit down on the locker, put your toes to the fire. That’s right. Now, heave round with this dreadful yarn of yours. Listen, mates.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, though looking very serious, Harry told them all his story from the commencement.
“Well,” said the mate, “it isn’t so very dreadful after all, but I think you ought to see Captain Hardy at once. What say you, mates?”