Allan straightens his back in his easy-chair—he has been bending over the table, reading the “Noctes Ambrosianae”—straightens his back, stretches his arms, and says “Heigho!” Rory is busy arranging some beautiful transparent specimens of animalculae, not bigger than midges, on a piece of black cardboard; he had caught them overnight in a gauze net dragged astern. He doesn’t look up. Ralph is lying “tandem” on a sofa, reading “Ivanhoe.” He won’t take his eyes off the book, nor move as much as one drowsy eyelid, but he manages to say,—
“What are they about on deck, Rory?”
“Don’t know even a tiny bit,” says Rory.
“Rory,” continues Ralph, in a slightly louder key; “you’re a young man; run up and see.”
“Rory won’t then,” says Rory, intent on his work; “fag for yourself, my lazy boy.”
“Oh!” says Ralph, “won’t you have your ears pulled when I do get up!”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Rory, “you’ll have forgotten all about it long before then.”
“Freezing Powders!” roared Ralph.
The bright-faced though bullet-headed nigger boy introduced in last chapter appeared instantly. He was dressed in white flannel, braided with blue. Had he been a sprite, or a djin, he couldn’t have popped up with more startling rapidity. Truth is, the young rascal had been asleep under the table.
“Off on deck with you, Freezing Powders, and see what’s up.”