“Eating in the cabin!” exclaimed Serge, springing up so carelessly in his excitement that he bumped his head against the bottom of the berth above him. “You don’t mean it! Are you going to bunk there, too?”
“I’m afraid so. You see, I don’t exactly like to ask a favor of Captain Duff, or I’d try for permission to sleep in here with you.”
“Oh, pshaw!” ejaculated Serge. “You don’t mean that. You know you don’t. Why, man, the mere fact that you are billeted in the cabin instead of in the forecastle shows that you must be rated as a hunter.”
“Why must I?” inquired Phil, in a puzzled tone. “And pray what is a hunter?”
“One who hunts, of course. He lives aft, and don’t have to stand watch—”
“So Mr. Coombs said,” interrupted Phil.
“Nor do any of the ship’s work,” continued Serge.
“Am I to be allowed to do anything at all except suck my thumbs and maintain my ‘dig,’ like old Kite Robinson?” asked the young hunter.
“Oh! you’ve heard of him, have you? Of course you will be allowed to do something. You will be allowed to shoot, and not only that, but you will be expected to shoot all day, and every day from sunrise to sunset; and mighty hard work you will find it, too, before you get through with it.”