Before long, the fun grew fast and furious at the middies' table; laughter and even the snatch of a song broke from them. Pretty soon one of the English officers arose—the one who had first noticed their presence. He walked over to their table, and rapped on the edge with the hilt of his sword.
"Less noise, less noise here!" he said.
Bainbridge was about to spring to his feet, when Raymond restrained him. "Have a care," he said softly.
No one noticed the Englishman's presence, and slightly abashed he returned to his seat. But he covered his confusion with an air of bravado. "Taught 'em a lesson," he sniggered.
In a few minutes the whole party had adjourned to the play-house.
Carlotti sang her best, every one was enjoying the music and anxious for more, when the curtain fell on the first act. The Constitution lads applauded so long that one might have thought they wished to have the whole thing over again, which they would have liked exceedingly. But seeing at last that the prima donna would not respond,—she had been out five times,—the lads arose and strutted into the lobby in a body.
"There's that officious Britisher," said Bainbridge, nodding his head toward a group of scarlet coats that stood blocking up a doorway.
"Oh, I just heard about him," put in one of the smallest reefers. "He's Tyrone Tyler, the dead shot,—I overheard some one pointing him out. He's killed eleven men, they say."
The officer in question was tall and exceedingly slender, and he might have been called good-looking if it were not for the insolent eyes, the leering mouth, and arrogant chin that made him so conspicuous. He made some remark that caused the others to laugh as he put up his eyeglass and stared into the faces of the Yankee middies. Some reddened and dropped their glances, but Bainbridge returned the stare with interest. The Englishman frowned and let his glass fall from his eye.
"Care for cub-hunting, Twombly?" he inquired of a red-faced man at his elbow. "Here's a chance for you!"