Right above this disconsolate group, and almost right above the
Major's head as he thrust it through the hatchway--or, to be more
precise, at the head of the ladder leading to the _Vesuvius's_ poop--
clung a little wry-necked, red-eyed, white-faced man in dishevelled
uniform, and capered in impotent fury. But as when a child is
chastised he yells once and there follows a pause of many seconds
while he gathers up lung and larynx for the prolonged outcry, so
after his first bull-roar Captain Crang, of the _Vesuvius_ bomb,
clung to the rail of the poop-ladder and wrestled for speech, while a
little forward of the waist his crew huddled before the storm, yet
(although the Major failed to perceive this) not without exchanging
winks.
"Wha--_what_? In the name of ten thousand devils, what the '----'
is _that_?" yelled the Captain, and choked again.
"_In_ a gale--_off_ Pernambuco," murmured Mr. Jope. "Steady, Bill;
steady does it, mind!" Advancing to the foot of the ladder, he
touched his forelock and stood at attention. "Pressed men, sir.
Found in the theayter and brought aboard, as _per_ special order."
The Captain's throat could be seen working within his disordered
cravat. "Them! But--Oh, help me--look at 'em, Bos'n!"
"Sir!"
"Look at' em!"
"It's not for me to object, sir. As you was sayin', they don't look
it; but bein' ear-marked, so to speak--"
"Where is Mr.
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