row dizzy
and ache violently, when kindly Nature led him to the temporary way out
of the weary trouble which tortured him, and he fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

GETTING THE WORST OF IT.

Another morning passed, and the schooner was once more sailing away
through the beautiful calm blue see, heaving in long slow rollers which
seemed to be doing their best to rock the injured prisoner back to a
state of health.

He had breakfasted and been dressed by his sea-going attendant, and was
so much better that he was more irritable than usual, while the
skipper's son met all his impatient remarks without the slightest
resentment.

The result was that the sick middy in his approach to convalescence was
in that state called by Irish folk "spoiling for a fight," and the more
patient Poole showed himself, the more the boy began to play the lord.

It was not led up to in any way, but came out in the way of aggravation,
and sounded so childish on this particular occasion that Poole turned
his head and crossed to the cabin-window to look out, so that Fitz
should not see him smile.

"I have been thinking," he said, with his back to the boy's berth, "that
while we are sailing along here so gently, I might get some of old
Butters' tackle."

"Who's Butters?" said Fitz shortly.

"Our bo'sun."

"But what do you mean by his tackle? You don't suppose that I am going
to do any hoisting, or anything of that sort, do you?"

"No, no; fishing-tackle. I'd bait the hooks and throw out the line, and
you could fish. You'd feel them tug, and could haul in, and I'd take
them off the hook?"

"What fish would they be?" cried the boy, quite eagerly, and with his
eyes brightening at the idea.

"Bonito or albicore."

"What are they?"

"Ah, you have never been in the tropics, I suppose?"

"Never mind where I've been," snapped out the boy. "I asked you what
fish those were."

"Something like big mackerel," replied Poole quietly, "and wonderfully
strong. You would enjoy catching them."

The way in which these words were spoken touched the midshipman's
dignity.

"Hang his impudence!" Fitz thought. "Patronising me like that!"

"Shall I go and ask him for some tackle?"

"No," was the snappish reply. "I don't want to fish. I have other
things on my mind. I have been thinking about this a good deal, young
man, and I am not going to put up with any of your insolence. I am an
officer in Her Majesty's service, and when one