“We ought to bargain they don’t take any more notice of this affair, or write home about it,” suggested Shankley.
“Who cares what they write home?” scornfully inquired Smith.
“Ah, it may not matter to you,” said Hawkesbury, smiling very sweetly, “but to all the rest of us it does.”
Smith glared at the speaker, and looked as if he was about to fly at his throat; but he controlled himself, and merely replied, “Very well, then, they are to promise not to say anything about it at home, as well as give in on the other things. Is that settled?”
Everybody said “yes,” and shortly afterwards most of the mutineers were peacefully asleep.
“Fred,” said Smith to me that night, as we kept watch together, “unless that fellow Hawkesbury lets me alone I shall give the thing up.”
“Don’t do that,” said I. “Really, I don’t think that Hawkesbury means it. I’ll speak to him if you like.” It cost me a great effort to say this.
Smith fired up unwontedly at the suggestion.
“If you do, you and I will never be friends again,” he said, passionately. Then recovering himself, he added, repentantly, “Fred, I’m awfully sorry I lost my temper. I know I’m a brute; but please don’t think of speaking to any one about it.”
“All right, old man,” said I.