“And he will keep his promise, too; you can bet high on that,” said Flint, greatly amazed. “Have you told me the worst yet?”
“Yes, I think I have. Haven’t I told you enough?”
“I should say so. I told you that a boy who goes to sea always gets more kicks than ha’pence, and now you find that I spoke the truth.”
“But is there nothing I can do?” asked Guy anxiously.
“Nothing—nothing in the world. You must take your kicks and say not a word. One of these days, when you are an officer, you can take it out of the green hands who ship under you. That’s your only chance to get even.”
Flint, having offered Guy all the consolation in his power—and very poor consolation it was, too—now bethought him of his own troubles. Thrusting his hand under his shirt he drew out his “monk-bag”—a small leather purse which was suspended from his neck by a string. The last time he saw the purse it was well filled with bills and coin, but now it was empty.
“I have been eased of my wealth,” said he. “Do you know what has become of it? I had eighty dollars in here, and never spent a cent of it.”
“Is that gone, too?” exclaimed the boy, astonished at the calmness with which his friend announced the discovery of his loss. “I don’t know any thing about it, but I do know where your advance went.”
With this Guy begun, and hurriedly described the scene that had been enacted when Flint and his insensible companions were first brought on board, dwelling with much indignation on the fact that he had seen Rupert steal his friend’s money, and had tried to make him give it up, but had only succeeded in bringing down upon himself the wrath of the captain, who choked him until he could scarcely see.
When Guy finished, he looked at Flint, expecting that he would be very angry, and that he would at once seek the skipper and demand satisfaction for the manner in which he had been treated; but the sailor did nothing of the kind. He simply smiled, and said, with an effort to appear cheerful: