t at last;
"just when I want to show that I am ready to take my part in anything.
Why, if I'm ready to be upset like this, I shall be left on board when
they are going on expeditions fishing, shooting, or hunting, and--Oh!
this won't do."

And to prove that it would not do he jumped up, walked up and down the
cabin twice,--a very short journey, by the way,--found that it did not
hurt him more than lying still on the locker, and then went on deck.

CHAPTER FIVE.

REVENGE BY DEPUTY.

"Better, Steve?" said the captain, giving him a friendly nod; and
without waiting for his answer, he went forward to where the engineer,
who had nothing to do, was talking to the mate, and then they all went
below into the engine-room.

One of the Norway men was at the wheel, the other sailors were in the
forecastle, and there was no one to talk to; so Steve went forward, and
was nearly abreast of the galley when Watty Links, the shock-headed boy,
came out bearing a bucket of potato peelings and refuse, looking sour
and sore, but as soon as he caught sight of Steve his face expanded into
a broad grin, and, evidently in a high state of delight, he trotted to
the side, turned the contents of the bucket overboard, and ran back into
the galley, keeping his head averted as if to hide his mirth.

The blood flushed up into Steve's cheeks, and he turned away, walking
aft to watch the grey gulls which seemed to have arrived all at once,
and were flying about in quite a crowd, making darts down to the surface
to seize some fragment that was floating, amidst querulous screaming and
the beating of wings.

It was a curious sight to see the rapidity with which a scrap of biscuit
or fat was darted upon, and borne aloft by the hungry birds; but somehow
in the grey cloud of feathers wheeling round and rising and falling
above the glittering sea, Steve seemed to see the mocking face of Watty,
who, smarting from the contempt with which he had been treated, snatched
at the opportunity for triumphing over the other's misfortune; and he
could not have selected a way more likely to sting him than by a display
of derision.

"Verra beautiful, Meester Young, isn't it?" said a voice, and Steve
turned sharply to find it was the Scottish sailor who had approached
unheard.

"What, the sparkling sea, Andra?"

"Nay, the burruds, sir. Look at the pretty things. It minds me o'
being in Loch Fyne, coming down from Crinan in ane o' Meester
Macbrayne's bonnie