“You’ll not forget ‘mine host’ of the country venda,” he said, laughing, as he shook hands for the last time. They gave him three cheers, as the boat shoved off and pulled away for the frigate.
Higson had been silent, while the rest were talking, as if brooding over something; at length he exclaimed, “I say, Rogers, I’ll not have you call me old Higson—they were the last words I heard.”
“Then you didn’t hear me call the other fellows to your assistance,” answered Tom promptly. “If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been sitting up and talking now. It wouldn’t have been pleasant for your friends to have seen a paragraph in the papers, ‘John Higson, mate of HMS Plantagenet, was hung on the —’”
“Avast there,” cried Higson, “or I’ll break your head, you—”
“He really was the means of saving your life,” said McTavish.
“Then I’m obliged to you, Rogers, and you may call me old Higson as often as you like, provided you do me an equal service every time.”
The next morning the frigate stood out of the Bay of Funchal on her way to the West Indies.