Jim Rawlings and I managed to hold our end "up" all right in the gunroom, and hadn't been aboard a week before the Sub begun to leave us alone. We had hoped that that wretched telegram had been lost somewhere, but it turned out that it had only been "hung up" at Shanghai, and when the Ringdove came down with the Admiral's answer to the Captain's letters, she brought it with her. Dicky was on watch, heard Mr. Rashleigh tell someone that he had a telegram a fortnight old for the Captain, guessed it was ours, and rushed down to the gunroom flat to tell us. He looked as frightened as we felt. Jim suggested asking Willum to try and steal it from the Captain's table, and we did, but Willum didn't like midshipmen, and told us that the Captain had his hand on top of it too, so we could do nothing but huddle up on our chests and wait.
Presently someone shouted down that we'd been ordered to recapture the yacht and go for the pirates, and everyone began yelling and shouting and cheering; you could hear the cheers as the news passed along from one mess to the other. It was so exciting, that Jim and I forgot all about that wretched telegram, and we all made a fearful row in the gunroom, and Mr. Hamilton, the big Engineer Lieutenant, hammered out "Rule, Britannia" and "We won't go home till morning" on the piano. It was simply grand.
It was just about "seven bell" tea time when we heard the news, and when we'd let off steam Mr. Langham banged on the table for silence. "Gentlemen," he shouted, "on this great occasion, before you commence to stuff yourselves with bread and jam, we will perform the time-honoured ceremony of 'over the main top', the last midshipman down to have no 'seven bell' tea. Stand by!" and we all tried to get a good position near the door. "One! Two! Five! Go!" and we all scrambled out, helter-skelter up on deck, flattening out the sentry on the Captain's cabin, who did not get out of the way in time, up to the boat deck, into the starboard main rigging, clambered up it, into the fighting top, jumped across in a mob, down the port main rigging, half sliding and getting our hands trodden on, and dashed back to the gunroom, where the Sub-lieutenant and the A.P. were sitting with their watches in their hands, to see whether any records had been beaten.
I was amongst the first few, because I had got a good start, but Jim was nearly last—I'd seen him helping Dicky to haul himself into the fighting top. Dicky and Ponsonby—he was called Pongo for short—a fat little cadet, were actually the last, coming in together and both claiming not to be last. Dicky, like an ass, squeaked out, "He trod on my thumb," and held it up to show the blood, "going up the ratlines," and Pongo gasped, horribly out of breath, "I couldn't climb into the top, I couldn't really; I nearly fell," and we all yelled with delight. "You climb into you hammock fast enough, you fat little beast," said Mr. Langham. "The first three are Mr. Webster, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Johnson. Mr. Pongo and Mr. 'Dear Little Dicky' are last—a dead heat; neither of them will have any seven bell tea. Fall out! Dismiss'"
It had just struck seven bells too, and Ah Man, the Chinese messman, and Hong Cho, his steward, had covered the table with cups and plates, loaves of bread, tins of salt butter, and pots of jam. We all scrambled for places—there wasn't room for us all to sit down together—and grabbed at Ah Man's long white coat as the fat old chap came along, with his big teapot, and tried to get an early whack of tea. "No can do, Gen'l'men! Makee too muchee bobberee; no can do, all same one time," the old chap shrieked in his funny voice, as he pushed his way between the table and the bulkhead.
Poor Dicky and Pongo had to wait on the Sub, cut him slices of bread, spread them with butter, pile them up with jam, and then stand to attention, whilst he very slowly ate them, and made funny remarks with his mouth full—we had to laugh at them, whether we thought them funny or not.
"The great thing in life, Mr. Pongo," he said, stuffing a huge piece of bread and jam into his mouth, "is to be moderate in everything," and when he could speak again, "You, Mr. Dear Little Dicky, may suck your bleeding thumb if you're thirsty, and don't take it out again until I tell you."
So there Dicky had to stand, with his thumb in his mouth, looking an ass, and awfully miserable.
"There is still a chance of your getting some tea, my pet lambs," he went on. "Jones and Withers will be here in five minutes" (they were the midshipman of the watch and signal midshipman, and came off watch at 4 o'clock), "and they'll have to go over the 'main top' before I can make my final decision."
It wasn't much of a chance, and when they did come down and were ordered over the "main top", they were back again in a very much shorter time than Pongo or Dicky had taken.