He staggered to the ladder, and with unsteady haste gained the deck and made for the side. The heaving waters made him giddy to look at, and he gazed for preference at a thin line of coast stretching away in the distance.
The startled mate, who was steering, gave him a hail, but he made no reply. A little fishing-boat was jumping about in a way to make a sea-sick man crazy, and he closed his eyes with a groan.
Then the skipper, aroused by the mate’s hail, came up from below, and walking up to him put a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing aboard this ship?” he demanded, austerely.
“Go away,” said Private Bliss, faintly; “take your paw off my tunic; you’ll spoil it.”
He clung miserably to the side, leaving the incensed skipper to demand explanations from the crew. The crew knew nothing about him, and said that he must have stowed himself away in an empty bunk; the skipper pointed out coarsely that there were no empty bunks, whereupon Bill said that he had not occupied his the previous evening, but had fallen asleep sitting on the locker, and had injured his eye against the corner of a bunk in consequence. In proof whereof he produced the eye.
“Look here, old man,” said Private Bliss, who suddenly felt better. He turned and patted the skipper on the back. “You just turn to the left a bit and put me ashore, will you?”
“I’ll put you ashore at Bystermouth,” said the skipper, with a grin. “You’re a deserter, that’s what you are, and I’ll take care you’re took care of.”
“You put me ashore!” roared Private Bliss, with a very fine imitation of the sergeant-major’s parade voice.
“Get out and walk,” said the skipper contemptuously, over his shoulder, as he walked off.