"Bad luck," said Guilford, "not to catch that scoundrel."
"Bad luck for the wounded also," said McTavish; and so it turned out, for several of these died before morning, the pitching and rolling of the Breezy being very great.
"How is your boy Bungle?" asked one of the middies as Kep, looking somewhat crest-fallen, entered the gun-room.
"He is very low indeed," replied Kep, "and the doctor thinks he cannot live."
"Going to slip his moorings, is he? Poor little devil! Is he sensible?"
"Oh, yes, and bears his sufferings like a small hero, as indeed he is."
"Ah, well!" said the middy, "that's the tack we'll all be on--some day. Mellor, give that decanter of wine you seem to stick to, a fair wind this way."
"I'm holding on to it," said Mellor, "because it has a ball-bottom and won't stand on the table."
"Of course it won't. It was made like that on purpose, you untamed idiot, so that dolts like you should pass it round."
* * * * *