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Syd Belton: The Boy who would not go to Sea, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 18 |
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_ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. Syd started into wakefulness in the morning to find that he had been sleeping heavily. His head ached a little, and when he moved there was a smarting sensation, but he felt disturbed mentally more than in body. He turned out of his hammock and dressed as quickly as the new stiff buttonholes of his uniform would allow, all the time suffering from a sensation of misery and discomfort which made his temper anything but amiable. "How's your head?" said Roylance, who was one of the last to wake. "Bad--sore--aches." "Let me look." Syd submitted himself unwillingly. "Only wants a bathe, and a bit of plaister. I'll see to that." The dressing was finished, the hammocks rolled up, and Syd was wondering how long breakfast would be, and what they should have. Terry, who was strolling about the place watching him furtively, suddenly stood aside, the others watching him. At that moment Roylance came down into his berth with a pair of scissors and some sticking-plaister. "Here you are," he said. "I'll just cut a little of the hair away, and put a bit of this on. It won't show under your hat." "All right," said Syd, sitting down in the middle of the place on the top of his sea-chest; "but you needn't have fetched that. I had some in here." "Do for next time," said Roylance, cutting off a large piece of plaister. "Oh, nonsense," said Syd, laughing; "a quarter of that would do. I could do it myself if I could see." Just then Terry came swaggering up, and Roylance winced, the scissors with which he was cutting the plaister trembling a little. "Oh, look here, Master Roy," said Terry, haughtily. "You made some remarks to me in the night about that cutting down of the hammock. I want an apology from you." "I'm busy now, Mr Terry," said Roylance; and the irritable feeling which troubled Syd seemed to be on the increase. "I didn't ask you if you were busy, sir, I said I wanted an apology," continued Terry, while the rest of the mess looked on excitedly at the promising quarrel between the two eldest middies on board the _Sirius_. "I'm attending to this new messmate's hurt." "Let him go to the doctor if he is hurt," snarled Terry. "I tell you I want an apology. You as good as said that I cut down this cub's hammock last night." "If I had quite said it, I dare say I shouldn't have been far wrong," replied Roylance, in a low tone. "Oh, indeed, miss," sneered Terry, "you always were clever with your tongue, like the long thin molly you are. Now then, take that back before--" He ceased speaking and doubled his fists. Syd felt as if he were sitting on a fire, and something within him was beginning to boil. "I'm not going to apologise now," said Roylance, wincing a little, but speaking more determinedly than before. "Arn't you? Then I'm going to make you," said Terry. "Bolton, go to the bottom of the ladder and give warning." "No, no; send Jenks," said the boy addressed, appealingly. "You go, and do as you're told," said Terry, fiercely; and Syd felt as if he must boil over soon, no matter how much he was hurt. "Now then, Miss Roylance, if you please, I'm waiting," said Terry, in an offensive way. "You're such a talker that you can easily make a nice apology." Roylance went on cutting and sticking the piece of plaister. "Do you hear me, sir?" cried Terry, "or am I to set Baby Jenks to thrash you?" "Stand up, Belton," said Roylance, quietly. "Now then, turn a little more to the light;" and Sydney rose. "Stand aside, youngster. I want to give Miss Roylance a bit of sticking-plaister first." As he spoke he gave Syd, who was between them, a push, whose result astounded him. "Out of the way will you," cried Syd, fiercely; "can't you see he's busy?" That which had been boiling in him had gone over the side at last, and Terry stopped short staring with astonishment. "If you want to talk to him, wait till he has done my head. Better talk to me, for it was you, you great coward, who cut me down." "Why you--oh, this is too good!" cried Terry, with a forced laugh, as he looked round at the little knot of his messmates. "There, wait a minute till I've done with Molly Roylance, and I'll soon settle your little bill." Roylance stood looking pale and excited, with the scissors and plaister still in his hand, but on his guard ready to spring back or sidewise if attacked. Then he, like his would-be assailant, stared in astonishment. For Syd had resumed his position between them as if about to lower his head to the light; when, feeling that if he wished to maintain his character he must act sharply against what was to him a new boy in the midshipman's mess, Terry laid hold of Syd's collar and swung him round. "Out of the way, will you!" he said; and as the road was clear he made a spring at Roylance, but suddenly gave his head a twist, tripped over the new sea-chest that was in the way, and fell heavily. "Oh, that's it, is it?" he cried, as he sprang to his feet. "Well, the sooner you have your lesson the better." He began to divest himself of his upper garment as he spoke; and Syd, whose teeth were set, and whose knuckles were tingling from the effect of the blow he had planted on Terry, rapidly imitated him. "No, no," said Roylance, excitedly; "this is my quarrel. You see fair." "You want me to quarrel with you?" cried Syd, fiercely; "see fair yourself. Hold that." He threw his garment to the tall slight lad, and rolled up his sleeves, to stand forth no mean antagonist for the bully, though Terry was a couple of inches taller, as many years older, and better set. "Be ready to pick him up, Molly Roy," said Terry, sneeringly. "Get a sponge and a basin of water ready, Baby Jenks, and--" He staggered back. For as he spoke he had begun sparring at one who was smarting with rage, and the thought that the cowardly fellow who had injured him so in the night was before him ready for him to take his revenge. Syd thought of nothing else, and the moment he was facing his adversary, clashed in at him, delivering so fierce a blow that Terry nearly went down. Then came and went blow after blow. There was a close, a fierce struggle here and there, and both went down just as a pair of broad shoulders were seen at the door beside those of Bolton, who was keeping watch over the fight instead of the companion-ladder, and the broad shoulders and the rugged countenance were those of the new boatswain. "Arn't lost much time," he growled. "No. Don't stop 'em," whispered Bolton. "Let them have it out." "Oh, I arn't agoin' to stop 'em," growled back Barney. "He's got to be a fighting man, so he'd better larn to fight." "Can he fight?" whispered the middy. "Seems like it, sir: that was right in the nose." An excited murmur ran through the spectators, as after a sharp little episode, during which Syd had been a good deal knocked about, Terry went back against the bulkhead and stood with his hand to his face. "Ready for the sponge and basin, Mike Terry?" squeaked Jenks; and there was a laugh. "I'll remember that, Baby," cried Terry, squaring up to his adversary again with the full intention of putting an end to an encounter beneath his dignity; and after a sharp struggle Syd's crown struck the bulkhead loudly, and he went down sitting on a locker. "That's done him," said Bolton, with a sigh, as if he were disappointed. "Not it, my lad. Master Syd arn't got warm yet. Your chap's got his work cut out to lick him." "Then he can fight?" whispered Bolton, eagerly. "Well, it arn't so much his fighting; it's a way he's got o' not being able to leave off when he's wound up, and that tires 'em. Look at that." The fight had been renewed by Terry rushing forward to finish off his antagonist, who had seemed to be a little confused by the last round. But Sydney eluded him, and with a wonderful display of activity avoided several awkward blows, and after wearying his enemy managed to deliver one with all his might in unpleasant proximity to Terry's eyes. The struggle went on with varying success, Syd on the whole naturally getting far the worst of it; but Barney stood stolidly looking on, and when Roylance felt his heart sink as he saw how badly his brave young defender was being beaten, the boatswain said coolly to Bolton in reply to a-- "Now then, what do you think of that?" "Lot's o' stuff in him yet, young gen'leman. He's good for another hour." There was encounter after encounter, and close after close, during which Syd generally went down first; but to Terry's astonishment the more he knocked his young antagonist about the fiercer it made him, and at last after delivering a successful blow full in Syd's chest he cried out-- "Take him away, Roy; I don't want to hurt him any--" Terry did not finish his remark, for the second half of that last word was knocked back by a bang right in the mouth, followed up by several others so rapidly delivered that the champion of the midshipmen's mess went down this time without a struggle. "What do you think o' that, young gen'leman?" said Barney. "Hurray!" whispered Bolton, bending down and squeezing his hands between his knees; "he'll lick him." "Eh? I thought he was your man." "A beast! He's always knocking us about," whispered Bolton. "Hurray! go it, Belt." The adversaries were face to face again, and there was a breathless silence. "Had enough?" panted Terry. "No, not half," cried Syd, rushing at him. "Look at that! See his teeth?" said Barney. "That's British bull-dog, that is. Master Syd never fights till he's made, but when he does--My eye! that was a crack." But it was not Barney's eye. It was Terry's, and the blow was so sharp that the receiver went down into a corner, and refused to get up again, while the subjects of the fallen king crowded round the victor eager to shake hands. "No, no," panted Syd; "don't: my knuckles are all bleeding. What's my face like?" he said sharply to Roylance. "Knocked about; but never mind that, Belton; you've won." "I don't mind," was the reply; "and I don't want to win. Are you much hurt?" he continued, going to Terry's corner, where the vanquished hero was still seated upon the floor with little Jenkins, with much sympathy, offering to sponge his face. "I'm sorry we fought," said Syd, quietly. "Shake hands." There was no reply. "You're not hurt much, are you?" Terry gave him one quick look, and then let his head down on his chest. "You'll shake hands?" said Syd. "We can be friends now." Still no notice. "Shake hands, Mike Terry," piped little Jenkins. "You've licked everybody, and it was quite your turn." "Hold your tongue, you little wretch," hissed the other. "I owe you something for this." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the impish little fellow, beginning to caper about with the sponge. "You touch me again and I'll get Belton to give you your gruel. You nasty great coward, you've got it at last." "Don't you be a coward," said Syd, sharply. "Now, Mr Terry, I'm very sorry: shake hands." "Here, one of you take that basin and sponge away from Jenks," said Terry, getting up painfully. "He wouldn't have done this if I hadn't hurt one of my arms." "Well, if I was licked fair like that, I would own to it," said Bolton. "It was fair, wasn't it, Roy?" "As fair as a fight could be," was the reply. "Yes," said Barney, thrusting in his head, "that was as fair as could be, Master Syd." "What you, Barney!" "Bo'sun, sir. I wouldn't interrupt you afore, 'cause I knowed you wouldn't like it, but the captain wants to see you." "What!" cried Sydney, as he clapped his hands to his swollen nose and lips. "Wants to see me?" "Soon as ever he's done his braxfass, sir." "Oh, what shall I do?" cried Syd. "Dunno, sir," said the boatswain, grinning, "unless you sends word you're sea-sick, for you do look bad." "No, no, I can't do that." "Oh, I dunno, sir," said the boatswain, chuckling. "You was sea-sick months before you joined your ship, so I don't see why you shouldn't be now. My Panny-mar's got it too. Took bad last night." "What, has he been fighting?" "Didn't ask him, sir; but he can't see out of his eyes, and when I asked him how he felt, he grinned like all on one side." "I heard there was a fight with a new boy," piped out Jenkins. "Had it out with Monkey Bill and licked him. Was that your boy, bo'sun?" "That's him, sir. We all comes of a fighting breed; him and me and the cap'en and Master Syd here. Skipper's awful, and I shall be sorry for the Frenchies and Spanles as he tackles. Well, Master Syd, what am I to tell the captain's sarvant 'bout you?" "Go and ask to see the captain," said Syd, firmly, "and tell him that I have been having a fight, and am not fit to come." "Hear that?" said the boatswain, looking proudly round--"hear that, young gen'lemen? That's Bri'sh bull-dog, that is. What do you think of your messmate now?" The middies gave a cheer, and crowded round Syd as Terry bent over the locker to bathe his swollen face, and he looked up once, but did not say a word. "Some says fighting among boys is a bad thing," muttered the boatswain, as he went on deck, "and I don't approve of it. But when one chap bullies all the rest, same as when one country begins to wallop all the others, what are you to do?" _ |
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