“Mr Lloyd,” shouted Alwyn, “bring Datchet before me to-morrow morning.”
Datchet was duly punished, Dr Barrett, however, begging mitigation of sentence on the plea that he had left temptation in the man’s way.
Time went on, and everything was got ready for a start. In a few more days the order would be, “Up anchor, and hey for Merrie England!”
All hands were happy. Small wonder at that. It was Friday night. The Icebear would sail on the Monday, the stores having still to be got on board from the house on shore.
Friday night is, in many northern ships, held somewhat en gala, as the day is a salt-fish day, so to-night there was a huge sea-pie cooked for the half-deck officers, and several such for the men forward.
Everything seemed propitious as regards the weather, for though dense fogs had prevailed for a week or two—it was early in August—the sky was now clear and the glass slowly but steadily rising. So the men were right merry. Paddy O’Connell had never appeared to such advantage. The boy Bounce was even allowed to tell a story and sing a London street ballad; while big Byarnie sat in a corner, beaming over with gigantic smiles.
But by ten o’clock sounds were hushed, and all hands in bed fore and aft. There was not now a sound to break the stillness, for the solitary sentry had gone below to smoke by the galley fire.
An hour passed away; then a solitary figure might have been seen creeping aft on hands and knees.
Two hours. The captain is sleeping sound; his hand is over the coverlet. Into this hand a cold wet nose is thrust.
“Go away and sleep, Fingal,” he mutters.