The frigate gave a pitch, which made Tom feel as if he was going to be shot feet foremost along the deck.
“Arrah, now, where will we be after going to?” cried Paddy, from his hammock.
“Belay the slack of your jaws, youngsters,” growled out old Higson, who had just turned in after his watch, and being perfectly indifferent to all the rolling and pitching, and the wild uproar of the elements, wanted to go to sleep.
“If you make such a row, my colt and your backs will become acquainted with each other before long.”
“Why, man alive, it isn’t we are making the row, sure it’s the wind and the big waves outside the ship,” exclaimed Paddy.
The midshipmen’s small voices were, however, much more disturbing to the old mate than the sounds of the gale. A threatening growl was the only answer he condescended to make, as he had no intention to take the trouble of turning out of his hammock to execute the vengeance he promised.
Tom also by this time was dropping off to sleep, and Gerald shortly after followed his example. They ought properly to have kept the morning watch, but they were not called till the hammocks were piped up. They had then to turn out, feeling utterly unable to do anything but sit on their chests and languidly clutch their wet clothes. The two marines acting as their servants at length came aft, looking as pale and miserable as they were, and suggested that it would be wiser to get out some dry things. Dressing, after several pauses, was accomplished, and washing having been dispensed with, they managed to reel into the berth. There sat Higson, with coffee-pot in hand, and most of the other oldsters holding on to cups and plates, the biscuit-boat and more substantial viands being secured by puddings on the table.
“I’ve ordered some fat bacon especially for you fellows,” said the former, looking at Tom and Gerald; “it’s the best thing for you.”
“Oh, don’t,” they groaned in chorus. “Horrible!”
“Why don’t? You’ll never become sailors till you’ve eaten half a pound apiece every morning, for at least a week.”