AGHAST.

As the cabin-door closed Fitz lay back, trying to think about his

position, but he felt too comfortable to trouble much. There had been

something so soft and comforting about that tea, which had relieved the

parched sensation in his throat and lips. Then the skipper and his son

had been so kind and attentive. It was so satisfactory too about

getting that letter off, and then that evening glow rapidly changing

into a velvety gloom with great stars coming out, was so lovely that he

felt that he had never seen anything so exquisite before.

"There, I won't think and worry," he said to himself, and a minute later

he had fallen into a sleep which proved so long and restful, that the

sun had been long up before he unclosed his eyes again to find his

younger attendant once more netting.

"Morning," said the lad cheerily. "You have had a long nap, and no

mistake."

"Why, I haven't been asleep since sunset, have I?"

"You have, and it seems to have done you a lot of good. You can eat a

good breakfast now, can't you?"

"Yes, and get up first and have a good wash. I long for it."

"You can't. I shall have to do that. Here, wait a minute. I will go

and tell the cook to get your breakfast ready, and then come back and

put you all a-taunto."

The lad hurried out of the cabin, leaving Fitz wide-awake now in every

sense of the word, for that last rest had brought back the power of

coherent thought, making him look wonderingly out of the window at the

glorious sea, so different from anything he had been accustomed to for

months and months, and setting him wondering.

"Why, this can't be the Irish Channel," he thought, "and here, when was

it I was taken ill? I seem to have been fast asleep, and only just woke

up. Where was I? Was that a dream? No, I remember now; the lieutenant

and the cutter's crew. That schooner we were sent to board in the

darkness, and--"

Here his young attendant re-entered the cabin with a tin-bowl in one

hand, a bucket of freshly dipped sea-water in the other, and a towel

thrown over his shoulder.

"Here, hullo, midshipman!" he cried cheerily. "My word, you do look

wide-awake! But there's nothing wrong, is there?"

"Yes! No! I don't know," cried Fitz excitedly. "What's the name of

this schooner?"

"Oh, it's all right. It's my father's schooner."

"And you sailed from Liverpool?"

"I haven't come here to answer your questions," said the lad, almost

sulkily.

"That proves it, then. I remember it all now. We boarded you in the

dark, and--and--"

Before the speaker could continue, the cabin-door was thrust open and

the bluff-looking skipper entered.

"Hullo!" he said sternly, "what's the matter here?"

"Your son, sir, won't answer my questions," cried Fitz excitedly.

"Quite right, my lad. I told him not to until you get better, so don't

ask."

"I am better," cried the boy, trying to spring up, but sinking back with

a groan.

"There, you see," said the skipper, "you are not. You are far too weak.

Why not take my word for it, my lad, as a bit of a doctor? Now, look

here! You want to know how it is you came on board my craft--wait

patiently a little while, and when I think you are well enough to bear

it I will tell you all."

"But I don't want to be told now," cried the boy passionately--"not

that. I boarded with our men, and I can remember I felt a heavy blow.

I must have been knocked down and stunned. What has become of our

lieutenant, the boat and men?"

"Oh, well, my lad, if the murder must out--"

"Murder!" cried Fitz.

"Murder, no! Nonsense! That's a figure of speech. I mean, if the

story must come out, here it is. I was going peacefully down channel

when your boat boarded us."

"As she had a right to," cried Fitz, "being from one of the Queen's

ships on duty."

"Oh, I am not going to argue that, my lad," said the skipper coolly. "I

was sailing down channel, interfering with nobody, when I was boarded by

a lot of armed men in the dark, and I did what any skipper would do

under the circumstances. The boat's crew meant to capture my craft and

my valuable cargo, so after a scuffle I had them all pitched overboard

to get back to their boat, and gave them the go-by in the darkness, and

I haven't seen anything of them since."

"Oh!" exclaimed Fitz. "Resisting one of Her Majesty's crews! Do you

know, sir, what it means?"

"I know what the other means, my lad--losing my craft and valuable

cargo, and some kind of punishment, I suppose, for what I have done."

"But you have taken me prisoner, then?" cried Fitz.

"Well, not exactly, my lad," said the skipper, smiling. "I shouldn't

have done that if I had known. Nobody knew you were on board till the

next morning, for we were all too busy clapping on all sail so as to

give your gunboat a clean pair of heels."

"Never mind me," cried Fitz excitedly. "What about the boat's crew?"

"Oh, they'll be all right. They got back to their boat. We could hear

plainly enough the shouting one to the other, and your officer hailing

till the last man was picked up. They were showing their lantern then

without stint, not giving us a mere glimpse like they did when we saw it

first."

"Oh!" ejaculated Fitz, drawing his breath between his teeth as he

recalled the dropping off to sleep of poor Bill Smith.

"It was not till sunrise, my lad, that I knew you were on board. You

had had an unlucky crack on the head which sent you down the

companion-ladder, and when my lads brought and laid you up on deck it

seemed to me the worst part of the night's business."

"Then why didn't you put me ashore at once?" cried Fitz. "You were

keeping me a prisoner here," and he looked from father to son, the

former where he had seated himself quietly by the head of the middy's

berth, the other standing leaning against the bulkhead folding and

unfolding the clean towel, with the bucket of water and tin-bowl at his

feet.

"Why didn't I put you ashore at once?" replied the skipper. "Say, why

didn't I put myself and men all in prison for what I had done? Well,

hardly likely, my lad. I couldn't afford it, between ourselves. There!

It was your people's fault. You may call it duty, if you like. Mine

was to save my schooner if I could--and I did. So now you know the

worst. Come; be a good boy and let Poole there wash your face."

"Oh, this is insufferable," cried Fitz. "You are insulting a Queen's

officer, sir."

"I am very sorry, sir," said the skipper coolly, "but I have got another

duty to do now, and that is to make you quite well. This is only a fast

trading schooner, but in his way a skipper is as big a man as the

captain of a Queen's man-of-war. He is master, and you have got to

obey--the more so because it is for your own good. Why don't I set you

ashore? Because I can't. As soon as I safely can, off you go, but till

then just you take it coolly and get well."

"Put me aboard the first ship you see."

"I shall put you where I like, my boy; so once more I tell you that you

have got to obey me and get well. If you go on like this, exciting

yourself, we shall have the fever back again, and then, mark this, the

words of truth, you will be too ill to ask me to write to your mother

and tell her how bad you are."

Poor Fitz's lips parted, and he lay back upon his pillow speechless and

staring with a strange, wistful look in his eyes, making not the

slightest resistance, not even attempting to speak again, as the skipper

laid a hand once more upon his forehead, keeping it there a few minutes

before he removed it.

"Not so hot," he said, "as I expected to feel it. Go on, Poole, my boy,

and get him his breakfast as soon as you can."

The lad took his father's place as he vacated it and moved towards the

cabin-door, but only to return directly, step to the side of the berth,

and take one of the middy's hands and hold it between his own.

"There, there," he said, "I am sorry to be so hard with you, my lad, for

you have spoken very bravely and well. Come! A sailor has to take the

ups and downs of his profession. You are all in the downs now, and are,

so to speak, my prisoner; but we shan't put you in irons, eh, Poole?"

"No, father," said the lad addressed, smiling; "not quite."

"And I shall be disgraced--disgraced!" groaned the midshipman.

"Disgraced! Nonsense! What for? Why, my lad, your captain when he

knows all ought to put a big mark against your name; and I have no doubt

he will."

As he spoke he left the cabin without another word, and the silence was

just as great within; but it was a busy silence all the same, while Fitz

lay back, unable to avoid feeling how cool and pleasant was the touch of

the water, and how gentle were his attendant's hands.

He was still miserable, but there was something very satisfying later on

in being propped up with a great locker-cushion and a well-stuffed

pillow, feeling the deliciously warm morning air float through the open

cabin-window, what time, by the help of the skipper's son, he partook of

a capital breakfast, at first feeling that every mouthful was choking

him, then with eager appetite, Poole smiling pleasantly at him all the

while.

It was annoying too, for the middy felt that, to use his own term, he

ought to hate this "filibustering young ruffian" with all his heart. As

for speaking to him unless it were to give him some imperious order, he

mentally vowed he would not do that.

But that coffee was newly roasted, and though they were far at sea, the

fresh bread-cakes were nice and warm, and the butter not in the

slightest degree too salt. Fitz had been long without any food to

signify, returning health was giving him the first instalments of a

ravenous appetite, and somehow it seems to be one of Nature's rules that

_one_ fasting has his temper all on edge, while when he is satisfied it

does not take much to make him smile.

So it was that before the breakfast was over, Fitz Burnett had forgotten

his mental vow. Curiosity got the better of him.

"How far are we from land?" he said.

"The nearest?"

Fitz nodded.

"Oh, about eight hundred miles."

"And where's that? Somewhere south?"

"No, north by east."

"Do you mean it?"

It was Poole's turn now to nod.

The young midshipman sank back aghast, trying to mentally fill up the

blank between that night off the dark waters near Liverpool, and the

bright sunny sea before him now.

It was a thorough failure, for before many minutes had passed, his

thinking powers seemed to be rendered misty by a sunny glow through

which he was wafted back to England, Kent, and his own old pleasant

home.

His head had sunk back, and he was sleeping peacefully and well, not in

the least disturbed by his attendant as the breakfast-things were

removed and the cabin touched up. This done, Poole stood beside him,

examining his position.

"Seems comfortable enough," he said, "and I don't think he can roll

over. Poor old chap! It does seem a nasty turn, but it was not our

fault. I hope he'll soon settle down, because he seems to be the sort

of fellow, if he wasn't quite so cocky, that one might come to like."