and you'll be named in the
skipper's despatch, and--but oh, what a lark!" cried Bob, bursting into
a roar of laughter. "What a jolly old fifth of November guy you do
look!"

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

CONVALESCENCE.

"Hallo, old mole!"

"I'm going to give you a thoroughly good licking, Bob, as soon as I get
well," said Mark, a few mornings later, on being saluted as above.

"I should like to see you do it."

"You shall, my dear young friend. Last night it was rat; night before
owl; now it's mole."

"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,