At last, one morning, at the mess-table, after an unusually jolly supper the night before, when Billy and Archy had chummed together after the most approved fashion among midshipmen, Billy remarked, sagely:
"I've been thinking, Baskerville, what is the use of our fighting? I hate fighting. I always get the worst of it. But I can do it, you know."
"Of course. So can I. You are as game a fellow as I ever saw—and the object of fighting among gentlemen is to prove they are game. If the mess says so, let us consider it off."
"Why not?" replied Billy, with a grin, looking around. "They know I can fight—I have fought 'em; but there ain't any use in fighting unless one is obliged to."
"Not a bit," said Langton. "So, if you please, I shall be happy to consult with your friend as to the possibility of coming to an honorable arrangement."
"Good!" was Billy's remark; "and let me tell you, it looks to me"—here Billy cocked his eye with great knowingness—"as if we will have some fighting to do with powder and ball before long. The Admiral has not had the ships kept cleared for action ever since we began to approach Cape St. Vincent for nothing."
And then there was heard resounding through the great ship the boatswain's pipe calling all hands on deck, and a voice was heard shouting in the gangway:
"The Spanish fleet is sighted!"