Not a soul on board, indeed, knew of my mishap save those merry messmates of mine, all of whom doubtless, I thought, as soon as I regained my composure after the fright and knew that I was comparatively safe, would be in a great funk, fearing the worst had happened.
Glancing upward, my head being just clear of the water, which I trod to keep myself in an erect position, holding on, though, all the while, “like grim death,” to the rope, of which I had taken a turn round my wrist, I saw Larkyns, the ringleader of the frolic, leaning out over the port sill as pale as a ghost.
He was looking downwards, in every direction but the right one, seeking vainly to discover me; and he evidently dreaded that I was drowned, his face being the picture of misery and despair.
“Hist, old chap, don’t call out,” I whispered in a low voice, as he was about to give up the search and rouse the ship. “I’m all right, my boy.”
“My goodness Vernon, is that you? I thought you were lost, old chap,” he hailed back in the same key, the expression of his face changing instantly to one of heartfelt relief. “Thank God you’re not drowned! But, where are you, old fellow; I can’t see you?”
“Right under your very nose, you blind old mole! I am bent on to a bight of the whip falls,” I answered, with a chuckle. “Keep the other end of the rope taut, old chap, and I’ll be able to climb up back into the port without anybody being the wiser but ourselves, my hearty, and so we’ll all escape going into the report.”
He grasped the situation in an instant; and, likewise, saw the advisability of keeping the matter quiet now that I was not in any imminent peril.
Master Larkyns knew as well as myself that if the tragic result of their skylarking should get wind and reach the ears of Captain Farmer, he and his brother mids would have a rough time of it, and probably all be had up on the quarter-deck.
“All serene, Vernon, I under-constubble,” he softly whispered back to me, in our gunroom slang. “Do you think you can manage to climb up by yourself, or shall I come down and help you?”
“Fiddlesticks, you duffer! I can get up right enough on my own cheek,” I said with a titter, though my mouth was full of the brackish water into which I had plunged at first head and ears over, while my teeth were chattering with cold, the frosty November air being chilly. “I shall fancy I’m climbing the greasy pole at a regatta and that you’re the pig on the top, old fellow. How’s that, umpire, for your ‘Squaretoes,’ eh?”