square, Mr. Bunter. Don't you see the wind is nearly right aft?"

Bunter at once answered "Ay, ay, sir," though there was not the
slightest necessity to touch the yards, and the wind was well out on
the quarter. While he was executing the order Captain Johns hung on the
companion-steps, growling to himself: "Walk this poop like an admiral
and don't even notice when the yards want trimming!"--loud enough for
the helmsman to overhear. Then he sank slowly backwards out of the man's
sight; and when he reached the bottom of the stairs he stood still and
thought.

"He's an awful ruffian, with all his gentlemanly airs. No more gentleman
mates for me."

Two nights afterwards he was slumbering peacefully in his berth, when a
heavy thumping just above his head (a well-understood signal that he was
wanted on deck) made him leap out of bed, broad awake in a moment.

"What's up?" he muttered, running out barefooted. On passing through the
cabin he glanced at the clock. It was the middle watch. "What on earth
can the mate want me for?" he thought.

Bolting out of the companion, he found a clear, dewy moonlit night and a
strong, steady breeze. He looked around wildly. There was no one on the
poop except the helmsman, who addressed him at once.

"It was me, sir. I let go the wheel for a second to stamp over your
head. I am afraid there's something wrong with the mate."

"Where's he got to?" asked the captain sharply.