Chapter Seven.
Alone on the Moor—Adventure in the Cave.
On looking back through a long vista of years, and considering all the pros and cons of the case, and remembering that Jill and I were only boys, I do not think it any wonder we ran away from the dear old Thunderbolt hulk. I have always accused myself to myself, for the folly of having given way to a sudden romantic impulse—for which I, being the elder of the three on board, am alone accountable—playing at pirates, firing at a flag-ship, and all the rest of it.
But when our little game was over, and the full enormity of the offence stared us in the face, and after what the officer of the tug-boat had told us, I repeat, it is no wonder we ran away. We were not to know the officer was, figuratively speaking, laughing in his sleeve at us. We believed him. We were convinced it would end in a drum-head court-martial, with, next day, poor Jack swung up at one end of the fore-yard, and poor dear Jill at the other. A pretty sight that would have been on a summer’s morning. Romantic? Oh, yes, I own there would have been a good deal of romance about it. Rather much indeed. Our position would have been far too exalted to suit even my ambition.
Some one has said that hanging is the worst use you can put a man to, so it cannot be good for a boy.
That officer of the tug-boat, too, made so awfully light of the matter.
When I had asked him if hanging was very, very, dreadful,—
“Oh, dear me, no, my lad,” he replied, laughing, “not half so bad as having a tooth pulled.”