With this last bit of sarcasm the officer walked aft and rejoined the officer of the deck.
“It is hard to believe such a manly, clever cadet as Faraday would lie deliberately to get out of a scrape,” he said, “but it certainly looks as if he has been trying it. Fancy a lightship out here. Better take him off watch, or he’ll be keeping us awake all night. When do you change the course?”
“At eight bells, sir. It is almost that time now. Good-night, sir.”
“Rather good-morning. There would be a glimpse of dawn in the sky if it wasn’t for this confounded gale.”
Lieutenant Watson crossed the slippery, tossing deck to the break of the cabin, and glanced at the clock back of the wheel.
The hands indicated ten minutes of four.
With a sigh for the sleep he had lost, he went below to turn in. Five minutes later he was buried in a slumber.
In the meantime Clif had been relieved from his post on the forecastle. When the cadet officer in charge, a first classman, curtly bade him give way to another plebe, he silently obeyed, but it was evident he felt the disgrace keenly.
“Don’t you care, Clif,” spoke up Joy, who had formed one of the group. “Such mistakes are common.”