Four of us were trying to hoist our burden up the slippery ladder, which was rendered all the more slippery by the water washing down in a cataract every time a roller came over the forecastle and filled the waist of the corvette; not to speak of the rolling of the ship from port to starboard, and from starboard to port, varied by an occasional lift up in mid-air atop of some huge billow, and a dive down the next moment into the hollow of the waves, as if we were going down to Davy Jones’s locker.
Mick, who was the leading member of our quartet, on the top step of the ladder, was holding on like grim death to the side-rope with one hand, and stretching out the other towards Finlayson, a new boy whom we had not seen before till we joined the Active, he having been drafted from the Boscawen at Portland; and who, in turn, had hold of the tub and was clutching Mick’s hand to steady himself.
“Pull away, ye divvle!” cried Mick. “One more stip, begorrah, an’ we’ll be landid on the dick!”
“Shove up, you fellers below there!” shouted Finlayson, in response to this, to myself and another boy who had come forwards from the after part of the mess-deck to our assistance, but whose face I had not seen, from the fact of my back being turned to him. “Shove up, carn’t you! This chap atop here an’ me is bearin’ all the weight on it!”
“That’s all very well,” I growled, for the tub was slipping back on me, though I was holding it with both hands and shoving my knees into the steps of the ladder to keep myself steady. “Pull away, you beggar, your self! Aye, and you too, Mick, aloft there! I shall tumble back if you don’t take the weight of the tub off me!”
“Begorrah, Tom, me hearty, ye shan’t git kilt wid that there gashing-tub!” cried Mick, squinting down the hatchway and seeing my predicament. “Pull away, ye young divvle—it’s you, ye new boy, I’m afther manin’—pull away wid a will! Tom, why, sure, don’t ye make thet chap alongside ye put his shoulder to it properly? He ain’t workin’ at all, at all, bad cess to him, who ivver he is, fur I can’t say him at all, at all!”
“Whoi, I be a-shuvvin’ and a-shuvvin’ all the time,” rejoined a voice whose accents were strangely familiar to me. “You pull yerself, maister, and stop hollerin’ at Oi!”
I turned; and there, much to my astonishment, at the foot of the ladder was ‘Ugly,’ of whose being on board the same ship I was ignorant up to that moment, he being in the starboard watch and I in the port, and the necessities of the service not having brought us together before, though how I’d never seen him even casually at Portsmouth or at Portland I can’t account for.
Unfortunately, the curiosity that made me turn round brought about the mishap to which I have alluded, nearly making Tom Bowling, junior, your present informant, lose the number of his mess.