"I have been thinking," he said, with his back to the boy's berth, "that while we are sailing along here so gently, I might get some of old Butters' tackle." "Who's Butters?" said Fitz shortly. "Our bo'sun." "But what do you mean by his tackle? You don't suppose that I am going to do any hoisting, or anything of that sort, do you?" "No, no; fishing-tackle. I'd bait the hooks and throw out the line, and you could fish. You'd feel them tug, and could haul in, and I'd take them off the hook?" "What fish would they be?" cried the boy, quite eagerly, and with his eyes brightening at the idea. "Bonito or albicore." "What are they?" "Ah, you have never been in the tropics, I suppose?" "Never mind where I've been," snapped out the boy. "I asked you what fish those were." "Something like big mackerel," replied Poole quietly, "and wonderfully strong. You would enjoy catching them." The way in which these words were spoken touched the midshipman's dignity. "Hang his impudence!" Fitz thought. "Patronising me like that!" "Shall I go and ask him for some tackle?" "No," was the snappish reply. "I don't want to fish. I have other things on my mind. I have been thinking about this a good deal, young man, and I am not going to put up with any of your insolence. I am an officer in Her Majesty's service, and when one is placed in a position like this, without a superior officer over one, it is my duty to take the command; and if I did as I should do, I ought to give orders to 'bout ship and make sail at once for the nearest port." "That's quite right; and why don't you?" "Well--er--I--er--that is--" "Here, I say, old chap, don't be so cocky. What's the good of making a windbag of yourself? I've only got to prick you, and where are you then? You don't think you are going to frighten my dad with bluster, do you?" "Blus-ter, sir?" "Yes, b-l-u-s-t-e-r. You can't call it anything else. I know how you feel. Humbled like at being caught like this. I'm sorry for you." "Sorry! Bah!" "Well, I am, really; but, to tell the truth, I should be more sorry if you could get away. It's rather jolly having you here. But you are a bit grumpy this morning. Your head hurts you, doesn't it?" "Hurts? Horrid! It is just as if somebody was trying to bore a hole in my skull with a red-hot auger." Poole sprang up, soaked a handkerchief with water, folded it into a square patch, and laid it on the injured place, dealing as tenderly with his patient as if his fingers were those of a woman, with the result that the pain became dull and Fitz lay back in his bunk with his eyes half-closed. "Feel well enough to have a game of draughts?" said Poole, after a pause. "No; and you haven't got a board." "But I have got a big card that I marked out myself, and blackened some of the squares with ink." "Where are your men?" "Hanging up in that bag." "Let's look."