“‘You called “Live boy” at Two Bells; and so it’ll be “Dead boy” when it strikes Three Bells. It’s always turn and turn about aboard ship.’
“‘Yes, that’s fair enough and I thank you kindly,’ answered the poor marine, sucking in the other’s gammon like milk, not perceiving for a moment that the sailor was ‘pulling his leg’; and, the next time the bell sounded, as sure as we both stand here, if you’ll believe me, Mr Smythe, the silly donkey shouted out, even louder than he had done before, at the very pitch of his voice, ‘Dead boy.’”
“He, he, he!” cackled Mr Smythe again, while Dick Popplethorne, who had joined me by the taffrail and was intently listening like myself to “Joe’s” yarn, burst out in a regular guffaw, which he had to choke his fist into his mouth to suppress; for, any such violent expression of merriment was totally at variance with the discipline of a man-of-war and had to be checked at once for the good of the service! “But, what—ah, happened, Mr Jellaby, to the poor fellow, eh?”
“Why, the officer of the watch sent for the sergeant of the guard with a file of marines, and put the man under arrest for being drunk and mutinous!”
“You don’t—ah, mean to say he was punished?”
“No,” replied “Joe,” with a wink to us. “He certainly was brought up on the quarter-deck before the captain, who had heard his queer shout, as everybody did, indeed, who was on deck at the time; but, the bluejacket who had misled him came forward at the last moment and got him released from chokey, our captain, who was a good-tempered chap and enjoyed a joke, letting them both off, although he read ’em a lecture and had to bite his lip the while he spoke of the heinousness of their joint offence, he being hardly able to speak seriously!”
“Ah, I see,” said the Reverend Mr Smythe approvingly, though in a very faint tone, walking off towards the poop-ladder with the lieutenant’s aid, having evidently had enough of the ship’s rolling. He expressed a wish to seek the seclusion of his own cabin, whereat I was not surprised, both Dick Popplethorne and myself having observed his face assume a greenish-yellowy-liver sort of look during the last few moments of “Joe’s” narrative; but he kept up his courage to the last, murmuring yet more faintly as he tottered below. “Ve-wy good—ah! Ye-es, ve-wy good—ah, indeed!”
“Funny, wasn’t it?” said Dick Popplethorne to me as the two turned away, laughing again, only more quietly now. “What a rum start for him to sing out, ‘dead boy!’”
I thought so, too—afterwards.