CHAPTER VII.

On a Gun-boat.


When the Milwaukee was fairly out of range of the bullets of the
guerrillas, Frank put his gun back in the rack, and started in search of
the doctor's steward. He ran into the cabin without ceremony, and was
about to enter the steward's room, when he discovered a pair of
patent-leather boots, which he thought he recognized, sticking out from
under a mattress which lay on the cabin floor; and, upon examination, he
found that it concealed the steward, who was as pale as a sheet, and
shaking as though he had been seized with the ague.

"What do you want here?" he asked, in a trembling voice, as Frank raised
the mattress.

"Simpson is shot," answered Frank, "and I would like to have you come down
and see him."

"Do you suppose I am fool enough to go out on deck, and run the risk of
being shot? No, sir; I'll stay here, where I am safe;" and the steward
made an effort to draw his head under the mattress again.

"There's no danger now," said Frank; "the rebels have stopped firing.
Besides, we are out of"--

"Go away, and let me alone," whined the steward.