“And as there’s to be a call for volunteers, Captain Somers, I wish, sir”—here Pickle drew himself up as tall as he could—“to offer my services.”
“I am very much obliged, Mr. Israel,” answered Somers courteously, and refraining from smiling. “Your courage now, as always, does you infinite credit. But as only one officer besides myself is needed, I have promised my first lieutenant, Mr. Wadsworth, that honor.”
Poor Pickle’s face grew three quarters of a yard long. He suddenly dropped his lofty tone and manner, and burst out, half crying:
“That’s what all of the officers say, Captain Somers; and the next thing, maybe, the war will be over, and I sha’n’t have had a single chance of distinguishing myself—or—or—anything; and it’s a hardship, I say—it’s a hardship!”
Somers put his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder.
“But you have already distinguished yourself as one of the smartest and brightest midshipmen in the squadron; and this gallant spirit of yours will yet make you famous.”
Pickle turned away, and was about to go over the side, when Somers said:
“Wait a few moments, and see that there are others as brave and as disappointed as you.—Boatswain, pipe all hands on deck, aft!”
The boatswain, who was ready, piped up, and in a few minutes every man of the eighty that formed the company of the handsome brig was reported “up and aft.”
Somers then, with a glow upon his fine face, addressed the men, the officers standing near him.