At eight bells next morning, everybody both fore and aft having breakfasted once, and the boy Bounce twice at least, all hands were on deck waiting orders for the day. Presently the captain and surgeon came up, and took a turn or two up and down the quarter-deck, laughing and talking.
Then came the order, “Hands, lay aft.”
Claude himself addressed them, laughingly. He did not often say much face to face thus to his men.
“Men,” he said, “we’re going to have a forenoon on the ice.”
“Hurrah!” was the shout.
Round the ship, dear reader, and for no one knows how far out seaward, the water had been frozen into one smooth sheet of ice. Who could resist it?
All the skates in the ship were had up, and, although there were hardly enough, those who went without could slide. While the men waited the next order, there was a scream of terror sounded forward. The mate ran towards the fo’c’sle: there lay poor boy Bounce, bleeding; and standing over him, Datchet, the only black sheep in the ship.
“What do you want with skates, hey?” he was saying.
He had robbed boy Bounce.