An ugly brute of a modern man-of-war lay just without the reef, now quite inert, now giving a flap or two with her propeller. Nearer hand, and just within, a big white boat came skimming to the stroke of many oars, her ensign blowing at the stern.
“One word more,” said Wicks, after he had taken in the scene. “Mac, you’ve been in China ports? All right; then you can speak for yourself. The rest of you I kept on board all the time we were in Hong Kong, hoping you would desert; but you fooled me and stuck to the brig. That’ll make your lying come easier.”
The boat was now close at hand; a boy in the stern sheets was the only officer, and a poor one plainly, for the men were talking as they pulled.
“Thank God, they’ve only sent a kind of a middy!” ejaculated Wicks.—“Here you, Hardy, stand for’ard! I’ll have no deck hands on my quarter-deck,” he cried, and the reproof braced the whole crew like a cold douche.
The boat came alongside with perfect neatness, and the boy officer stepped on board, where he was respectfully greeted by Wicks.
“You the master of this ship?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Wicks. “Trent is my name, and this is the Flying Scud of Hull.”
“You seem to have got into a mess,” said the officer.
“If you’ll step aft with me here, I’ll tell you all there is of it,” said Wicks.
“Why, man, you’re shaking!” cried the officer.