“What the devil do you mean, you lubberly apothecary, by appearing before me in that rig? Two epaulets and a cocked hat for a surgeon’s mate! I got you, sir, to pound drugs in a mortar—not to insult your superiors by getting yourself up like a commodore. I’ll have you court-martialed, sir!—no, sir; I’ll withdraw your appointment, and take the responsibility of giving you the cat for your insolence!”
The poor Sicilian darted across the deck, and, still finding the enraged commodore at his heels, suddenly sprang over the rail and struck out, swimming for the shore.
Commodore Preble walked back to where the officers stood, who had watched the scene ready to die with laughter, and shouted:
“Mr. Israel, I believe you were the midshipman, sir, that I directed that miserable little pill-maker to go to for information respecting his uniforms?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Pickle in a weak voice, the smile leaving his countenance. The others had assumed as serious an expression as they were able, but kept it with difficulty. Not so poor Pickle, who knew what it was to fall into the commodore’s hands for punishment.
“And did you, sir, have the amazing effrontery, the brazen assurance, to recommend that little popinjay to have two epaulets and a cocked hat?” roared the commodore.
“I—I didn’t recommend him, sir,” replied Pickle, looking around despairingly, and seeing Decatur, Somers, Macdonough, and all the others with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, “but he asked me if I thought two epaulets would look well on him, and I said ‘Y-yes’—and—”
“Go on, sir!” thundered the commodore.
“And then I—I told him if he had two epaulets he ought to have a cocked hat.”
“Mr. Israel,” said the commodore in a deep voice, after an awful pause, “you will go below, and remain there until I send for you!”