“There, booby,” said Larkyns, slewing me round and shoving my head right out of the port.
“Can’t you see the powder hoy, there to your right, passing Blockhouse Fort, at the mouth of the harbour?”
“That one flying the red flag, eh?”
“Yes, my dear Squaretoes; but we don’t call a burgee a flag aboard ships.”
“I wish you would not call me Squaretoes, Larkyns,” said I, peevishly, for he hurt me, squeezing my neck in his tight grip, holding me out of the port as if I were a kitten, so that I could not turn my head round. “I hate nicknames. Do leave me alone, please!”
“Ah, would you, now!” he exclaimed in reply, as I tried to wrench myself free. “Don’t cry, my little pet, you haven’t got your mammy here to mollycoddle you!”
“Let me go, Larkyns, you’re choking me,” I gasped out, wriggling violently and kicking out behind. “I’ll hurt you if you don’t loose me; I will, indeed!”
He wouldn’t release me yet, however, seeing I was out of temper; and, some of the other middies not on duty gathering round, it being their watch below, egged Larkyns on, suggesting that as I seemed to think myself such a “big gun,” I ought to be sponged and loaded and run out.
This humorous advice was immediately acted upon, a couple of the gang laying hold of my legs in spite of my kicks, while another assisted Larkyns, my tormenter; and the mischievous lot swung me backwards and forwards in and out of the port, until nearly all my clothes were pulled off my back and I hadn’t a sound button left to my jacket.
I felt hot all over; and was in a fine rage, “I tell you,” as the gunner used to say.