The sailor who held him let go, and the lieutenant rose and looked about him.
“At all events,” he said coolly, “there is no commissioned officer among you, and it is not likely that any of you foremast people can navigate a ship.”
“I beg your pardon,” answered Mr. Dobell politely, “but I am Lieutenant Dobell of the Continental navy, and I feel altogether capable of taking this ship anywhere I wish. It was not I, but a grindstone, that fell overboard the night of the capture. I felt that with an officer to direct them our men could get the ship back, and for that reason I chose to spend my time below the hatches. Now, however, I promise myself the pleasure of your company in the cabin.”
The lieutenant, not to be outdone in politeness, answered with admirable self-possession: “When you have made your dispositions on the ship I should be pleased to have your company at dinner, for I conceive myself the host at this one meal at least.”
“Thank you,” responded Mr. Dobell. “I will not keep you longer than I can possibly help, for I acknowledge that the fare and table service under the hatches has not been altogether to my liking.”
Mr. Dobell then went on deck, and directing the prisoners to be mustered, they were marched below and occupied the late quarters of the Americans. No bad blood was shown on either side, but a philosophic acceptance of a change of conditions. Mr. Dobell had his plans so well made and easily carried out that within half an hour he rejoined the lieutenant in the cabin and ate the first good meal he had enjoyed for ten days; while the Raleigh, once more an American ship, bounded along under a freshening breeze to the music of three thundering cheers, given by the Americans as soon as they had leisure to celebrate their adventure.
Dicky Stubbs was the happiest little soul imaginable. He had been the only one among all the Americans allowed on deck, and the news he had carried below, and his achievements in pulling the sentry’s legs from under him, made Dicky a considerable hero in his own eyes. But Mr. Dobell, after seeing the boy every day in the time of their imprisonment, had concluded that he was a remarkably brave, sensible, and reliable boy, and had determined to interest himself in Dicky’s future welfare.
Mr. Dobell decided to make for Newport. They had favoring breezes all the way and passed many British cruisers, to all of which the Raleigh showed British colors and signaled that she had been taken from the Americans. But whenever a disposition was shown to speak her, she always made off with a swiftness that caused many an angry captain to promise himself the pleasure of reporting her to the admiral as wanting in the first principle of that courtesy which should prevail upon the seas.
The melancholy news that the Raleigh had been captured by the Ajax was brought to Newport one day by a trader from New York; and there was no sadder heart in Newport than that of the Widow Stubbs. She spent no time, however, in useless lamenting, for she had given her boy to her country cheerfully and knew what the sacrifice meant. And she consoled herself by thinking that it was after all but a temporal misfortune, not comparable to what might have been had Dicky been caught lying, stealing, or playing the rascal in any way. But she could not refrain from crying a little when, about sunset on the day the bad news came, she looked out of the window of her little house and thought that was the time that Dicky had been wont to come home jingling his pennies in his pockets with a vast air of importance before throwing them into her lap, and then demanding his supper as if he owned the earth. But—strange sight!—there lay a handsome little frigate at anchor in the harbor that looked astonishingly like the Raleigh; and—oh, happy miracle!—there was Dicky himself rushing up the path, followed by Jack Bell on a dog trot; and then the door burst open and Dicky, grown about a foot taller and broader, jumped into his mother’s arms, and Jack Bell marched in and began sawing her arm up and down. The Widow Stubbs was so amazed, astounded, and delighted that she was quite beside herself; and Dicky poured out a rigmarole, his tongue going like a millwheel, all about knocking the sentry down, and playing the fiddle, and what Mr. Dobell was going to do for him.
“What does he mean, Mr. Bell?” asked the Widow Stubbs helplessly, after having hugged and kissed Dicky twenty times over.