What reason
could he give the officer commanding her majesty's ship
for desiring to go back in the direction from which he had
just come!
What if he told them that two insubordinate seamen had
been roughly handled by their officers? They would but laugh
in their sleeves and attribute his reason for wishing to leave
the ship to but one thing--cowardice.
John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, did not ask to be transferred
to the British man-of-war. Late in the afternoon he saw
her upper works fade below the far horizon, but not before
he learned that which confirmed his greatest fears, and
caused him to curse the false pride which had restrained him
from seeking safety for his young wife a few short hours
before, when safety was within reach--a safety which was now
gone forever.
It was mid-afternoon that brought the little old sailor, who
had been felled by the captain a few days before, to where
Clayton and his wife stood by the ship's side watching the
ever diminishing outlines of the great battleship. The old
fellow was polishing brasses, and as he came edging along until
close to Clayton he said, in an undertone:
"'Ell's to pay, sir, on this 'ere craft, an' mark my word for
it, sir. 'Ell's to pay."
"What do you mean, my good fellow?" asked Clayton.
"Wy, hasn't ye seen wats goin' on? Hasn't ye 'eard that
devil's spawn of a capting an' is mates knockin' the bloomin'
lights outen 'arf the crew?
"Two busted 'eads yeste'day, an' three to-day.
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