“I ain’t a-joking,” replied the other, speaking as gravely as before and without even the shadow of a smile on his face. “I’m a ‘downright,’ that’s what I am.”
“Pray, what profession is that,” asked the commander, sarcastically. “I would not like to hurt your feelings by calling your avocation a trade!”
“You’re right, sir,” returned the other, as calmly as possible, without turning a hair; “I’m a gravedigger.”
This fairly made the commander collapse.
“You may muster with the after-guard,” was the only reply he made, but we all could see that he had hard work to keep his gravity, as he turned towards the boatswain’s mate and ordered him to pipe the men to dinner in a sharp tone; and he said to Mr Cheffinch, the gunnery lieutenant, when he crossed over the deck to go on board the old Blake to lunch, “He had me nicely there, like that other joker the chimney-sweeper. It must have been a planned thing between the two rascals!”
Chapter Seven.
We go out to Spithead.
Passing across the gangway with Commander Nesbitt to the hulk, which served as a sort of floating hotel for all of us while the Candahar was preparing for sea, officers and men alike sleeping and messing in her and only going on board our own ship during working hours between meals, as long as daylight lasted, I found Dr Nettleby, the chief of our medical staff, with one of his assistants, busily engaged in the sick bay on the main deck.