“Did he, though?” he said, brightly; then his face clouded as his eyes fell on his empty sword rack.
“The humiliation of the arrest is what hurts,” he added. “When the captain sent for my sword I felt like a veritable traitor.”
“There you are, sentiment again,” cried Sydney. “The sword is merely a matter of form. You will have it again in a jiffy. I’m coming back as soon as we anchor,” he added, buckling on his sword and hurriedly leaving the room as the bugle call sounded, and the boatswain’s mates’ hoarse voices were heard calling:
“Bring ship to an anchor!”
Throwing himself into his chair, Phil turned over in his mind the various incidents that had led to his arrest. How could he answer Lazar’s accusations? His only manly course was to acknowledge his guilt and hope for the captain’s clemency. Down in his heart he knew he would do the same again. It was cruel to stand by and see a man perish without raising a hand. Yet Lazar’s judgment had been sound. For the benefit of many it were better to allow one to drown.
Alone in his room he followed the movements of the ship by the noises about him. As the vibrations of the propellers lessened, he knew that the vessel was near the anchored fleet and had slowed her engines. Shortly, he heard the rattle of chain as the anchor was dropped overboard.
“Sir, the captain wishes to see Mr. Perry in the cabin,” announced the orderly five minutes later.
Entering the cabin, Phil removed his cap and stood with military exactness before his commanding officer.
“Take a seat, Mr. Perry,” said the captain, not unkindly.
A few moments elapsed, then Lazar entered, and at a motion from the captain occupied a chair next to Phil.