“Yes, sir,” Guy managed to reply.
“Well, bear it in mind, for it is gospel. I mean just what I say—no less.”
Guy did not doubt it in the least. A man who carried a face like that of the mate was capable of any atrocity. Between him and the second officer it was very probable that the ship would be made a great deal warmer than a frying-pan. He knew that he was utterly defenseless, and that there was no possible way to avoid the punishment the mates intended to inflict upon him. The only thing he could do was to perform his duty to the best of his ability, and that too with the disheartening conviction all the while forcing itself upon his mind, that no matter how hard he tried, the officers would find some excuse for using a rope’s end on him.
While Guy was busy with his swab, performing his work as well as he could see to do it through eyes blinded with tears, he happened to glance toward the forecastle and saw Flint slowly ascending the ladder. Guy could hardly believe that it was he. The sailor looked, as he afterward said he felt—“as dilapidated as a last year’s bird’s nest.” His hair was disheveled, his face haggard and pale, his eyes blood-shot, and had he been seen in the woods just then, he would have been taken for a wild man. Never in his life had Guy seen such an expression of utter amazement and bewilderment as that which his friend’s face wore as it arose slowly above the combings of the hatchway. Flint was lost, and it took him some time to get his bearings. He looked around the deck, and finally his eyes fell upon Guy.
“Halloo, mate!” said he, with a sickly smile and an abortive attempt to appear cheerful; “I knew you were somewhere about, for I couldn’t think of anybody else who would put a blanket under my head for a pillow, and spread another over me to keep me warm. What ship is this?”
“The clipper Morning Light,” said Guy. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you in your sober senses again. I want to talk to you.”
“Clipper be—blessed,” said Flint, looking all around. That wasn’t just the word he used, but it is as strong a one as we care to put in print. “Where are we bound?”
“Up the Mediterranean.”
“Mediterranean be blessed!” said Flint again. “Liverpool or the Horn more likely. But, Jack, how did I get aboard, and when?”
“You came last night. The landlord—Rupert is his name—brought you and the rest off in a yawl, and you were as drunk as a beast,” said Guy reproachfully, at the same time hoping that Flint could clear himself of the charge.