Chapter Three.
The Night Attack.
From this sleep I was aroused—in a few minutes, it seemed to me, although really it was nearly two hours later—by a boisterous banging upon the mess-table, followed by the voice of the marine who executed the functions of steward to the mess, exclaiming—
“‘All hands,’ gentlemen, please! The captain and the first liftenant is already on deck.”
This was followed by the rasping scrape of a lucifer match, by the feeble light of which the man’s face was seen bending over the lantern which he was endeavouring to light.
“Ay, ay, Jerry, look alive with the lantern, man!” responded the master’s mate. “What is the night like?” he continued, as he swung himself out of his hammock and hastily proceeded to thrust his long legs into his breeches.
“Dark as pitch, sir; blowing more than half a gale of wind, and threatening rain,” was the cheering answer.
“A pleasant prospect, truly,” muttered Good, my especial chum, as we jostled each other in the confined space wherein we were struggling into our clothing.