Poor chap, he was a dead boy now, indeed; although, he had been alive and as hearty and jolly as any of us that very afternoon down there at dinner in the mess.
It was almost incredible to recollect this! “I have just calculated,” observed Mr Stormcock amidst the general talk about our late messmate, as if stating a most important fact, “that the youngster fell overboard in latitude 48 degrees north, pretty nearly, and longitude 8 degrees 10 minutes west—a trifle to the westward of where we met that confounded Frenchman.”
“I don’t see how that information can be of any use to his friends, Stormcock,” said Mr Fortescue Jones, with a coarse laugh. “We can’t very well put up a tombstone over him in the Bay of Biscay.”
“For shame, sir!” exclaimed little Tom Mills, who was huddled up crying in a corner of the gunroom, Dick Popplethorne having been an old home friend. “Don’t make fun of the po–poor fellow now he’s dead!”
“That’s right, youngster,” put in Mr Stormcock. “Stick up for your friend. I didn’t mean anything against him for a moment, for I always found him a good sort of chap; though, I can’t say I had very much to do with him.”
“Well, for my part, I won’t say I’m sorry he has lost the number of his mess,” said that brute Andrews. “He was as big a bully as Larkyns, and I don’t owe him any good will, I can tell you.”
“You cowardly cur!” exclaimed Tom Mills, his face flaming up, though the tears were still coursing down his cheeks. “You know you wouldn’t say that if Larkyns were here now.”
“Wouldn’t I, cry babby?”
Tom did not reply to this in words; but he sent a telescope, that lay at the end of one of the tables near him, flying across the gunroom, catching Andrews a crack on his uplifted arm.
This saved his head, fortunately for him, Tom’s shot being a vicious one and well aimed!