“We are not out of the woods yet,” he cried. “No one can say with certainty that we’ll carry yonder ship into port, and who knows how soon we’ll be layin’ under the lee of a British frigate, waiting for them to board us?”
“You should hide your head in shame, Joshua Seabury!” Mr. Fernald said, angrily. “A man like you, counted as being the best gunner on the Massachusetts coast, one who fought with credit at Tripoli, to give way like a baby because some one of your messmates played a foolish trick!”
Having said this, the officer turned on his heel, as if regretting that he had stopped to bandy words with the men, and went aft, Simon and I following with the hope that we might find an opportunity of speaking to Captain Ropes.
He was standing near the wheel, glass in hand, watching the movements of the boats, and no one checked us as we went toward him.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
CHEERING INFORMATION.
When we came near the captain both us lads halted, and neither dared make any effort at attracting his attention, save we might do so by silence.
We stood two or three feet away, much like culprits who had come to beg for pardon, and there waited until the commander of the America chanced to take the glass from his eyes.