"Who under the canopy are you?" demanded the commander of the prize, as he looked at the young officer with something like contempt in his expression.
"I have just informed you who under the canopy I am," replied Christy, not pleased with the manner of the other. "To be a little more definite, I am Captain Christopher Passford, commander of the United States steamer Bronx, of which the Arran appears to be a prize."
"The captain!" exclaimed the fallen man. "You are nothing but a boy!"
"But I am old enough to try to be a gentleman. You are evidently old enough to be my father, though I have no comments to make," added Christy.
"I beg your pardon, Captain Passford," said the captain of the Arran, attempting to rise from the deck, in which he was assisted by Christy and by Mr. Baskirk, who had just come aft. "I beg your pardon, Captain Passford, for I did not understand what you said at first, and I did not suspect that you were the captain."
"I hope you are not seriously injured, sir," added Christy.
"I don't know how seriously, but I have a cut on the hip, for which I exchanged one on the head, parrying the stroke so that it took me below the belt."
"Have you a surgeon on board, Captain —— I have not the pleasure of knowing your name, sir."
"Captain Richfield, lieutenant in the Confederate Navy. We have a surgeon on board, and he is below attending to the wounded," replied the captain.
"Allow me to assist you to your cabin, Captain Richfield," continued Christy, as he and Baskirk each took one of the wounded officer's arms.