"Ah, here you are, Mr. Baskerville," called out the Admiral, who knew what a midshipman's appetite was, and supposed that Archy had shrewdly calculated on a good supper. "Sorry I can't order my steward to help you; but in that last lurch the ship gave he was pitched head-foremost over the table, and knocked out three teeth and blacked his eye—so he is now under the surgeon's care. But if you will kindly help yourself to that bowl— Oh, Jupiter!"
The Thunderer nearly went on her beam-ends, and so did the tureen. Archy, showing a very good pair of sea-legs, secured the bowl from a mass of broken crockery in the locker, and, presenting it, the Admiral filled it with pea-soup, only spilling about half.
"Excuse me, sir," said Archy, and plumped down flat on the floor, where, with the greatest dexterity, he conveyed all the soup in the bowl to his mouth.
"Any casualties on deck since I left?" asked the Admiral.
"No, sir. The fact is"—here the ship righted herself with a suddenness that threw Archy's heels almost into the Admiral's face—"I don't think it much of a blow."
The Admiral stopped his ladling for a moment and looked the boy in the eye very hard.
Archy felt emboldened to indulge in a little more boyish braggadocio, and remarked, airily:
"That is, there's nothing alarming in the blow, sir. It was blowing harder than this when we made the Texel in the Serapis."
"Young man," answered the Admiral, "you never saw it blow as hard as this in your life, and you never may again."
Archy, somewhat abashed, said nothing, and had the grace to blush; but spying a loaf of bread rolling under the transom, he crawled after it, secured it, and handed it to the Admiral.