“Owen Hartley, sir.”
“Owen Hartley!” repeated a tall midshipman, who was in Mr Leigh’s watch, and who was standing near. He looked hard at Owen, but said no more.
It struck Owen, as he glanced at the midshipman, that he had seen him somewhere before, but he could not at first recollect where it was.
He puzzled his brains for some time. At last he inquired the midshipman’s name of one of the men, pointing him out as he walked the deck.
“That is Mr Ashurst, a sprig of nobility of some sort,” was the answer. “Take care you don’t get foul of him. He carries on with a pretty high hand when he has the chance, especially if you go away with him in a boat, or he is in command on any occasion.”
Shortly afterwards a squall was seen coming up, and the various necessary orders were issued for the shortening of sail. The midshipmen hurried to their posts, repeating the orders they had received. Mr Ashurst came forward, shouting out, as he did so, to the men.
“Yes, those are the very same tones,” thought Owen, and he recognised the naval officer who, with his brother, had been thrown out of their carriage, and whom he had assisted in getting to rights again. “His brother called him Reginald. If this midshipman’s name is the same I shall have no doubt about the matter.”
Owen had not hitherto been stationed aloft, but one of the other boys was on the sick list.
“What are you doing on deck here, you idle young rascal?” exclaimed Mr Ashurst. “Quick, up the rigging and help to hand the fore royal.”
Owen obeyed, and flew up aloft. The lighter sails were quickly handed. The topsails were reefed, and the crew called down; the frigate stood on her proper course. The way Mr Ashurst addressed Owen convinced him that he was the person he supposed.