Pratt was about to follow up his first discharge with an assault from a pair of giant fists, but the voice of his commander restrained him.
"Ah, Pratt! somebody has been fooling you—you must look out for the future."
Pratt immediately knew from the peculiar tone of the voice which accompanied this remark who was the real author of the joke, and turned to his duty with the usual philosophy of a sailor, at the same time filling his mouth with nearly a whole hand of tobacco, to take the taste out, as he said. He did not soon sleep upon his watch again.
As the reader will perceive, Lieut. Morris was decidedly fond of a joke, as, indeed, is every sailor.
The storm still raged onward as day broke over the waters; the little Raker was surrounded by immense waves which heaved their foaming spray over the vessel from stem to stern.
Yet all on board were in good spirits; all had confidence in the well-tried strength of their bark, and the joke and jest went round as gayly and carelessly as if the wind were only blowing a good stiff way.
"Here, you snow-ball," cried Jack Marlinspike, to the black cook, who had just emptied his washings overboard, and was tumbling back to his galley as well as the uneasy motion of the vessel would allow; "here, snow-ball."
"Well, massa—what want?"
"Haint we all told you that you mustn't empty nothing over to windward but hot water and ashes—all else must go to leeward?"
"Yes, Massa."