“Good night, Harding.”
CHAPTER III.
Prisoners of War.
After a night of fitful slumber, the captives were awakened early by Dunton, the master’s mate left in charge of the schooner when Lieutenant Fotheringay went aboard the frigate. Dunton was a surly fellow, over middle age, and heartily hating all Americans who, in his opinion, were an inferior breed of English inhabiting a semi-civilized land. To him they were “damned Yanks,” deserving of neither courtesy nor favor.
“Lively, you fellows; get ready to go aboard the frigate.”
Hoppy coolly looked him over. “I guess there ain’t much getting ready about it, my friend. You see, we kind o’ forgot to bring our Sunday clothes, not expecting this honor.”
“I don’t want any back talk from prisoners,” replied Dunton, sneeringly.
“Is that so?” asked Hoppy in an even voice, though inwardly he felt like kicking the officer. “Well, now, I should think you’d like a little chat, seeing you’re so friendly about it.”
“Nice pair of scarecrows you are to go aboard a king’s ship and meet a post-captain!”
This was intended to silence Hoppy. Hoppy flushed, and Captain Knowles, seeing trouble ahead, nudged his compatriot warningly but without effect.
“Don’t know as you’re any beauty yourself, Dunton, with all your finery in the way of brass buttons. Ignorant folks might take you to be the king of England himself, but I have met king’s officers before now and I know that a master’s mate of your stripe is no ornament to a ship’s company.”