"Pooh! That's only because one of our stupid fellows who had been on the watch the night before dropped to sleep. They'll soon have you. You'll have the _Tonans_ thundering on your heels before you know where you are. I am expecting to hear her guns every minute." "That's quite possible," said Poole quietly; "but our little schooner will take some catching, I can tell you." "So you think," said Fitz, "but you in your ignorance don't know everything. You only sail, and what's the use of that against steam? Just let our gunboat be after you in a calm, and then where are you going to be?" "I don't know, and I don't think it's worth while to argue about it when we are out here in mid-ocean, and I suppose your gunboat is hanging about somewhere off the port of Liverpool. But look here, hadn't you better take father's advice and not talk so much? I don't mind what you say to me, and it doesn't hurt a bit, but you are rather weak yet, and after all you have gone through I shouldn't like to see you go back instead of forward. Why not have another nap?" Fitz gave a contemptuous sniff, held his tongue as if his companion in the cabin were not worthy of notice, and lay perfectly still gazing out to sea, but with his face twitching every now and then as he lay thinking with all his might about some of the last words Poole had said connected with the possibility of the gunboat being so far away, and he alone and helpless among these strangers, his spirits sank. How was it all going to end? he thought. What a position to be in! The skipper had said something about putting him aboard some vessel, or ashore;--but how or when? The position seemed hopeless in the extreme, and the poor weak lad thought and thought till his tired brain began to grow dizzy and ache violently, when kindly Nature led him to the temporary way out of the weary trouble which tortured him, and he fell fast asleep. CHAPTER SEVEN. GETTING THE WORST OF IT. Another morning passed, and the schooner was once more sailing away through the beautiful calm blue see, heaving in long slow rollers which seemed to be doing their best to rock the injured prisoner back to a state of health. He had breakfasted and been dressed by his sea-going attendant, and was so much better that he was more irritable than usual, while the skipper's son met all his impatient remarks without the slightest resentment. The result was that the sick middy in his approach to convalescence was in that state called by Irish folk "spoiling for a fight," and the more patient Poole showed himself, the more the boy began to play the lord. It was not led up to in any way, but came out in the way of aggravation, and sounded so childish on this particular occasion that Poole turned his head and crossed to the cabin-window to look out, so that Fitz should not see him smile.