Part 20 (1/2)

”Young Milvaine's.”

”Right, we're safe.”

Mr Dewar looked at Captain Wayland for a few moments.

”You believe in that youngster, sir?” he asked.

”I do. He's faithful, bold, or rather brave--”

”Yes, sir, he's as plucky as a bantam. He thrashed big Crawford the first day he came on board. Crawford has been good-natured ever since.

He showed fine fighting form when we brushed against those Arabs above 'Mbasa, and he jumped overboard, you know, and saved Raggy's life off the Quillimane river.”

”Raggy die some day for Ma.s.sa Milvaine,” put in the n.i.g.g.e.r-boy.

”Hush, Raggy, when your betters are talking.”

”Raggy die all same, though,” the boy persisted.

”The young scamp will have the last word. Yes, Mr Dewar, young Milvaine ought to have a medal for that; but, poor fellow, he won't, though I'm told there were sharks about by the dozen.”

”I saw it all,” said young Dewar. ”It was my cap that fell off, just before we crossed the bar. Raggy made a plunge for it, and over he went; Milvaine threw off his coat, and over he went. The coolness of the beggar, too, amused me.”

”Don't say 'beggar.'”

”Well, '_fellow_.' There was a basking shark in the offing, with its fin above the water, and a bird perching on it like a starling on the back of a sheep. The cap--the very one I wear now, sir--was between this brute and Milvaine, but no sooner had he got Raggy-- c.o.c.kerty-koosie, as he called it--on his shoulder, than he swam away out and seized the cap with his teeth, then handed it to Raggy. And the young monkey put it on, too. We picked him up just in time, for the sharks looked hungry, and angry as well.”

Mr Dewar helped himself to another half-tumbler full of claret.

”There is a wine-gla.s.s at your elbow,” said the captain, with a mild kind of a smile.

”Bother the wine-gla.s.s!” replied the middy. ”Pardon me, sir, but I'd have to fill it so often. My dear Captain Wayland, there's no more pith and foos.h.i.+on in this stuff than there is in sour b.u.t.termilk.”

The captain laughed outright. Mr Dewar was an officer of a very old and obsolete type.

”Why, my dear sir, that is my very best claret. Claret Lagrange, Mr Dewar; I paid seventy-five s.h.i.+llings a dozen for it.”

”Raggy,” he added; ”bring the rum, Raggy.”

”Try a drop of that, then.”

”Ah! that indeed, captain,” exclaimed Mr Dewar, with beaming eyes.

”That's a drop o' real s.h.i.+p's.”

He was moderate, though, but he smacked his lips. ”I feel in famous form now,” he said. ”I hope we'll come up with that rascally dhow before long. With my good sword now, Captain Wayland, and a brace of colts, I think--”

At this moment Mids.h.i.+pman Milvaine--our Harry--entered, cap in hand.

He has greatly improved since we last saw him, almost a giant, with a bright and fearless eye and a most handsome face and agile figure. His shoulders are square and broad. He is very pliant in the waist; indeed, the body above the hips seems to move independent of hips or legs.

Harry had now been four years in the service, and was but little over sixteen years of age.