"Time we had a mouthful to eat," said a voice at his side. It was Mr.
Franklin, the chief mate, with his head sunk between his shoulders, and
melancholy eyes. "Let the men have their breakfast, bo'sun," he went on,
"and have the fire out in the galley in half an hour at the latest, so
that we can call these barges of explosives alongside. Come along, young
man. I don't know your name. Haven't seen the captain, to speak to,
since yesterday afternoon when he rushed off to pick up a second mate
somewhere. How did he get you?"
Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly disposition of
the other, answered him smilingly, aware somehow that there was something
marked in this inquisitiveness, natural, after all--something anxious.
His name was Powell, and he was put in the way of this berth by Mr.
Powell, the shipping master. He blushed.
"Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting ready. The
ship-keeper, before he went away, told me you joined at one o'clock. I
didn't sleep on board last night. Not I. There was a time when I never
cared to leave this ship for more than a couple of hours in the evening,
even while in London, but now, since--"
He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes towards that
youngster, that stranger.
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