Wallingford glanced over the lithe, supple, springy young fellow and realized that these words were no idle vaporings and that the power and will were behind them to make them good.
“Perhaps you may have a chance to show what you can do in the fighting way before we reach Nantes,” said the young third lieutenant. “I heard Simpson among the middies at eight bells last night trying to get one of them to thrash you.”
Ethan’s eyes flashed and his hands clinched.
“I trust he didn’t succeed,” said he. “For the midshipmen of the Ranger struck me as being a rather decent lot.”
“They are,” said Wallingford. “And none of them would accept his hints. But he didn’t stop there. There is a Canadian master’s mate on board, a hulking, savage sort of fellow. Simpson has been talking to him; so you’d better look out unless you want to complain to the skipper.”
“I’ll not do that,” answered Ethan determinedly. “I’ve always fought my own battles, and mean to continue to do so.”
“I think he—Simpson, I mean—judged you to be one of that kind, and he’s just mean enough to take advantage of it.”
Ethan told Shamus of this that same evening as they paced the deck together.
“The master’s mate, is it?” said the dragoon. “Well, I’ve noticed that same fellow to-day as he kicked and swore at the small lads and mild looking men in the crew. He’s a stout lump of a fellow wid a wicked look, so if there is to be ructions wid him, Master Ethan, leave him to me, and I’ll engage not to leave a whole bone in his body, so I will.”
Ethan laughed at his companion’s enthusiasm, but replied,