The roomful of bewildered youngsters stood up.
“Silence!” Mr Dawkins, with a formidable frown and shake of the head, stepped down from the master’s desk, and began to pace the floor in front of the attentive ranks, his big, tattooed hands thrust into his waistcoat pockets. What, I thought, if one of the school guardians were to come in, to find this outrageous mariner stalking to and fro, a broken mortar-board over one eye, my cane stuck under his arm, and Mr Henry Winter standing by, helpless?
To make an end of this silly business, I broke open the packet, which contained a letter from Brandon Pomfrett. “Glory be to God, my uncle hath consented!” he wrote. “Come to see him at once. As for your schoolmastering, fling it over the hedge. I have something better for you safe in hand.”
I scarce hesitated an instant. “Mr Dawkins,” I began. He turned short upon me.
“How now, shipmate?”
There was a laugh at the back of the room, checked as Dawkins faced about.
“Who laughed there?” he thundered. “What! Can’t two gentlemen talk on the quarterdeck, without disturbance by a mess of tallow-faced young swabtails like you! Let me see a smile, and I’ll cut a smile on that boy that’ll last a month!”
Shaking his head and grumbling, Dawkins turned again to me.
“I will come,” said I. “Tell Mr Pomfrett I will come!”
“And that’s good news, too, I’ll warrant,” cried Dawkins. “Why, we shall be shipmates yet, I’ll lay a dollar. Both masters, we are, too, and there’s a curi’s thing to reflect upon,—sailing-master and schoolmaster. We shall be a pair of brothers, I reckon, in less than no time. Now,” said Mr Dawkins, facing the boys with a formidable visage, “as to this here crew of yours, master. Would you consider it wisdom to flog the lot? Or would you, otherwise, consider a spree ashore, and a scramble for silver money”—he jingled the coins in his pockets, frowning horribly—“as doing good, in a general way of speaking?”