“Flag?” said Dick—“flag?”
“Why, yes, the Union Jack,” said Sam, looking at him in simple surprise. “It’s no use going to Piggott’s Bay without a Union Jack? Didn’t you know that, Dick? Arter goin’ there last night too!”
He stood in an easy attitude waiting for an answer and gazed in clumsy surprise at Dick, as that arch-deceiver stamped his way down below in a fury. He even went so far as to pretend that Dick had gone down for the flag in question, and gingerly putting his head down the scuttle, said that a pair of bathing drawers would do if it was not forthcoming—a piece of pleasantry which he would willingly have withdrawn when the time came for him to meet Dick at dinner.
By the time they reached Northfleet again all interest in the search had practically ceased. For one thing it was an unpleasant thing for grown men to be exposed to the gibes of Henry, and for another, looking at it in the cold clear light of reason, they could but see that there was very little prospect of success. In the cabin pessimism was also to the front with the mate as its mouthpiece.
“It’s against all reason,” he said, after arguing the matter a little. “You can’t expect to find him. Now take my advice, you’re doing better with a safe trade between here and Brittlesea—stick to that.”
“I won’t,” said the other doggedly.
“It’s hard on ’em,” said the mate—“the old men I mean—chevying ’em and hunting ’em about just because they’ve got gray whiskers and are getting into years. Besides which, some of the crew ’ll get into a mess sooner or later.”
“Talk as much as you like you won’t affect me,” retorted the other, who was carrying on the conversation as he was down below washing.
“There you go again,” said the mate, “making yourself look nice. What for? Another fellow’s girl. Turn it and twist it as much as you please, that’s what it comes to.”
“When I want your advice,” said the skipper, covering his confusion by a vigorous use of the towel, “I’ll ask for it.”