“You would deprive all poor old mates of the only privilege they possess,” answered Rawson; “that would be hard indeed.”
The frigate, it was found, was bound out to the North-American station. This was a great disappointment, as Mr Calder, especially, was anxious to rejoin the “Thisbe” as soon as possible, not to lose his chance of promotion.
However, although the gale continued to increase, Captain Markham was not the man to put back into port as long as he could possibly keep the sea. He had a good deal of the Flying Dutchman spirit about him, without the profanity of that far-famed navigator, which has so justly doomed him to so unenviable a notoriety.
The frigate was rolling and pitching somewhat heavily, as Ronald and his companions found their way into the midshipmen’s berth.
“Take your seats. You are welcome here, mates,” said the caterer as they entered. “We shall have food on the table in a jiffy. There’s cold beef, and salt pork, and soft tack, and here is some honest Jamaica rum. Not a bad exchange for the Frenchman’s wish-wash claret, I suspect.”
The reception, altogether, given to the new comers was cordial, if unrefined, and not many minutes had elapsed before they were all perfectly at home. Ronald, less accustomed than the rest to a midshipman’s berth, felt more inclined than usual to be silent. He found himself seated next to a midshipman, who differed considerably, both in manners and in many points, from his companions. His appearance was not at the first glance in his favour. He was red-haired, and tall, and thin; so tall, indeed, that when he stood up his shoulders touched the deck above, and his head and neck formed an arch over the table. He must have been eighteen or nineteen years old at least; indeed, he might have been older, though he still wore the uniform of a midshipman. Ronald thought that he was rather dogmatical, though his remarks were characterised by shrewd, good sense, not destitute of humour. It was not till he stood up that Ronald, who had been looking round the berth to discover the person who had just rendered him such essential service, felt sure that he was the one. Ronald suddenly put out his hand.
“I have to thank you for saving my life just now,” he exclaimed with genuine warmth. “If it had not been for you I should be floating away dead astern.”
“It cost me but little to haul you up, so say no more about it,” answered the tall midshipman. “I happened to be looking over the side, and caught a glimpse of your head as you were hanging on like a codfish just caught by a hook. Besides, I find you come from the far north, and we Scotchmen always help each other.”
Ronald had detected a slight Scotch accent in his new friend.
“You must let me be grateful, at all events,” he answered. “And you won’t heave me overboard again when I tell you that I am not a Scotchman, but a Shetlander.”