“We will rejoin the sloop, sir, thank you. Our injuries are not very serious,” replied Smellie.
“Very well, be it so,” returned the skipper; and there the conversation ended.
The next moment the clear tee-tee-tweetle-tweetle-weetle-wee-e-e of the boatswain’s whistle came floating down to us, followed by his gruff “Cutters away!” and presently we saw the boat glide down the ship’s side, and, after a very brief delay, shove off and come sweeping down toward us.
Five minutes later the prize crew, under Williams, the master’s mate, with young Peters, a fellow mid of mine, as his second in command, stood upon the schooner’s deck, and Mr Austin, who had accompanied them, was wringing our hands as though he would wring them off.
Smellie saw the exquisite agony which our warm-hearted “first luff” was unconsciously inflicting upon me by his effusive greeting, and thoughtfully interposed with a—
“Gently, Edgar, old fellow. I am afraid you are handling poor Hawkesley a little roughly. He has received rather a bad hurt in the right shoulder to-night in our fight with the schooner’s people.”
“Fight!—schooner’s people! I beg your pardon, Hawkesley; I hope I haven’t hurt you. Why, you never mean to say you have had to fight for the schooner?” Austin interrupted, aghast. “Well, we took her by surprise; but her people proved very troublesome, and very pertinacious in their efforts to get her back again,” Smellie replied. “But, come, let us get on board the old Daphne once more. I long to set foot on her planks again; and, like Hawkesley here, I shall not be sorry to renew my acquaintance with Burnett.”
So said, so done. We made our way into the boat, leaving the prize crew to secure the prisoners, and a few minutes later stood once more safe, if not altogether sound, on the deck of the dear old Daphne.