“Ask the captain,” said Roy, sealing his note to Harry.
“Sounds like mutiny to me,” said Chub.
“For goodness’ sake, Dick, let’s mutiny and stop his talking about it!”
“Yes, why don’t you?” asked Chub, eagerly. “I’ve been looking forward all along for a mutiny. I wish to put some one in irons and confine him in the lazaret.”
“Lazaret nothing!” protested Dick. “The lazaret is where they put sick folks.”
“Dickums,” responded Chub, superiorly, “without wishing to hurt your feelings I’d like to say that you show a lamentable ignorance regarding things—er—nautical. Let me prescribe for you a short course of Clark Russell, W. H. G. Kingston, and Marryat.”
“I’ve read as many of Marryat’s as you have,” replied Dick, in injured tones. “And I know that a lazaret is a hospital.”
“On some ships maybe, Dickums,” answered Chub, amiably, “but not on the Slow Poke. And speaking of that, fellows, we haven’t changed her name yet. I thought we were going to get some paint and fix it.”
