"Well, so you are a jolly old mole. Regular night bird." "Didn't know a mole was a night bird." "Boo! clever. He's getting well, is he? You're always sneaking about in the dark. Why, if I'd been wounded I should be proud of my scars." "Should you?" said Mark, passing his hand over his bald head and scorched eyebrows. "Well, I'm not, and I shan't care about showing myself till my hair's grown." "Look here, I'll get the armourer to make you a wig out of some oakum." "Bob Howlett, I'm strong enough to lick you now," said Mark, gripping the boy's thin arm, "so just hold your tongue. Now tell me how's poor Mr Russell?" "Coming round fast. Whitney goes about rubbing his hands when he thinks no one is looking. He's as proud as a peacock with ten tails because he operated on Russell's head and lifted up something, and now the poor fellow's going on jolly. I like Russell." "So do I. He's a true gentleman." "And I shall make him take me next row there is on. He's sure to be wounded or something, he's such an unlucky beggar, and then I should have to be in command." Mark burst out laughing. "Now don't be sneering and jealous," cried Bob. "Think nobody else can capture slavers but you? Nasty slice of luck, that's all it was. Yah! I'm sick of it." "Of what?" "Hearing the fellows puffing and blowing you up. You'll go pop like a soap bubble one of these days." Mark laughed good-humouredly. "Anyone would think you had done wonders, and were going to be promoted to admiral instead of being only a middy who has to pass his examination years hence, and then going to be plucked for a muff, for I know more navigation than you do. Look here, Guy Fawkes: when the sun is in right declination forty-four degrees south, how would you find the square root of the nadir?" "Put your head a little nearer, Bob; I can't hit out quite so far." "Hit--hit me? Why, you bald-headed, smooth-faced--No, I won't jump on you now you're down. I'll be bagdadibous, as the chap with a cold in his head said through his nose. Favourite of fortune, I forgive you." "Thankye." "Because I shall get my whack of the prize-money same as you, old chap." "Ah, how are all the slaves?" "Nice and clean. They've all been white-washed." "Get out." "Well, I mean the holds, and they eat and drink and lie about in the sun basking like black tom-cats with their wives and kittens. I wish they wouldn't be so jolly fond of lying down on the deck like door-mats, and asking you to wipe your shoes on 'em." "They don't." "No, poor beggars, but they're so delighted that they're just like pet dogs. Seem as if they couldn't make enough of you." "Got any news, Bob?" "No. Leastwise, not much," said Bob, taking out his knife and sharpening it on his boot, which was a sign that he was going to cut his initials somewhere, to the great detriment of her Majesty's ship's fittings and boats. "It's rather dull down here sometimes." "Then why don't you come on deck?"