Fitz the Filibuster Part 7

"Yes, _sir_, you oaf! Where are your manners? Is that fellow a surgeon?"

"No; he is captain of this s.h.i.+p."

"s.h.i.+p! Captain!" sneered the boy, in a contemptuous tone which made his listener writhe. "Why, it's a trading schooner, isn't it?"

Poole was about to speak out sharply, when a glance at the helpless condition of the speaker disarmed him, and he said quietly--

"Oh, yes, of course it's a trading schooner, but it was originally a gentleman's yacht, and sails like one."

"Indeed!" said the boy sneeringly. "And pray whose is it?"

Poole looked at him open-eyed as if expecting to see him suffering from a little deliriousness again; but as no sign was visible he merely said quietly--

"My father's."

"And pray who's your father?"

Poole looked at him again, still in doubt.

"That is."

"Oh!"

There was silence for a few moments, before Fitz turned himself wearily and said in a careless, off-hand tone--

"And what's the name of the craft?"

"The _Silver Teal_."

"Silver Eel--eh? What a ridiculously slippery name for a boat!"

"_Silver Teal_," said Poole emphatically.

"Silver Grandmother! A nice set you must be to give your gimcrack craft such a name as that! But you may take my word for it that as soon as ever you are caught in your slippery eel you will all either be hung or go to penal servitude for life--though perhaps you'll be let off, as you are nothing better than a boy."

"Oh yes, I am only a boy," said Poole, rather bitterly; "but the _Silver Teal_, or Silver Eel as you call it, has to be caught yet. Your people did not make a very grand affair of it the other night."

"Pooh! That's only because one of our stupid fellows who had been on the watch the night before dropped to sleep. They'll soon have you.

You'll have the _Tonans_ thundering on your heels before you know where you are. I am expecting to hear her guns every minute."

"That's quite possible," said Poole quietly; "but our little schooner will take some catching, I can tell you."

"So you think," said Fitz, "but you in your ignorance don't know everything. You only sail, and what's the use of that against steam?

Just let our gunboat be after you in a calm, and then where are you going to be?"

"I don't know, and I don't think it's worth while to argue about it when we are out here in mid-ocean, and I suppose your gunboat is hanging about somewhere off the port of Liverpool. But look here, hadn't you better take father's advice and not talk so much? I don't mind what you say to me, and it doesn't hurt a bit, but you are rather weak yet, and after all you have gone through I shouldn't like to see you go back instead of forward. Why not have another nap?"

Fitz gave a contemptuous sniff, held his tongue as if his companion in the cabin were not worthy of notice, and lay perfectly still gazing out to sea, but with his face twitching every now and then as he lay thinking with all his might about some of the last words Poole had said connected with the possibility of the gunboat being so far away, and he alone and helpless among these strangers, his spirits sank. How was it all going to end? he thought. What a position to be in! The skipper had said something about putting him aboard some vessel, or ash.o.r.e;--but how or when? The position seemed hopeless in the extreme, and the poor weak lad thought and thought till his tired brain began to grow dizzy and ache violently, when kindly Nature led him to the temporary way out of the weary trouble which tortured him, and he fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

GETTING THE WORST OF IT.

Another morning pa.s.sed, and the schooner was once more sailing away through the beautiful calm blue see, heaving in long slow rollers which seemed to be doing their best to rock the injured prisoner back to a state of health.

He had breakfasted and been dressed by his sea-going attendant, and was so much better that he was more irritable than usual, while the skipper's son met all his impatient remarks without the slightest resentment.

The result was that the sick middy in his approach to convalescence was in that state called by Irish folk "spoiling for a fight," and the more patient Poole showed himself, the more the boy began to play the lord.

It was not led up to in any way, but came out in the way of aggravation, and sounded so childish on this particular occasion that Poole turned his head and crossed to the cabin-window to look out, so that Fitz should not see him smile.

"I have been thinking," he said, with his back to the boy's berth, "that while we are sailing along here so gently, I might get some of old b.u.t.ters' tackle."

"Who's b.u.t.ters?" said Fitz shortly.

"Our bo'sun."

"But what do you mean by his tackle? You don't suppose that I am going to do any hoisting, or anything of that sort, do you?"

"No, no; fis.h.i.+ng-tackle. I'd bait the hooks and throw out the line, and you could fish. You'd feel them tug, and could haul in, and I'd take them off the hook?"

"What fish would they be?" cried the boy, quite eagerly, and with his eyes brightening at the idea.

"Bonito or albicore."

"What are they?"

"Ah, you have never been in the tropics, I suppose?"

"Never mind where I've been," snapped out the boy. "I asked you what fish those were."

"Something like big mackerel," replied Poole quietly, "and wonderfully strong. You would enjoy catching them."

The way in which these words were spoken touched the mids.h.i.+pman's dignity.

"Hang his impudence!" Fitz thought. "Patronising me like that!"

"Shall I go and ask him for some tackle?"

"No," was the snappish reply. "I don't want to fish. I have other things on my mind. I have been thinking about this a good deal, young man, and I am not going to put up with any of your insolence. I am an officer in Her Majesty's service, and when one is placed in a position like this, without a superior officer over one, it is my duty to take the command; and if I did as I should do, I ought to give orders to 'bout s.h.i.+p and make sail at once for the nearest port."

"That's quite right; and why don't you?"

"Well--er--I--er--that is--"

"Here, I say, old chap, don't be so c.o.c.ky. What's the good of making a windbag of yourself? I've only got to p.r.i.c.k you, and where are you then? You don't think you are going to frighten my dad with bl.u.s.ter, do you?"