“Ah, yes; so it was. I made the same mistake myself, see. Yes, they fired a broadside at him.”
“No; only one shot at his head.”
“That was all. Isn’t that what you said?”
“And then he turned over in the water—”
“Dead as a leg of mutton!” put in Tim.
“No; the shot missed him, and he wasn’t touched.”
“No. I meant they all thought he was as dead as a leg of mutton; but he was not so much as grazed.”
All this while the amusement of the listeners had been growing gradually beyond control, and at this point smothered explosions of laughter from one and another fell on Tim’s ears, like the dropping of musketry fire. But he did not guess its meaning, and continued turning towards Tidswell, and waiting for the conclusion of the story.
“And the last they saw of him,” resumed that worthy, his voice quailing with the exertion to keep it grave and composed—“the last they saw of him was, he was spinning away at the rate of twenty knots an hour, with his tail in his mouth, in the direction of the North Pole.”
“I fancied it was only eighteen knots an hour,” put in Tim seriously.