Anyhow, we've come to the end of our
tether. The alternative's ruin. It's pretty black to windward, whichever
way you look at it, but one way spells ruin for the lot of us; the
other, at the worst, means disaster for only one. I vote we draw lots,
and the man who draws the shortest lot wins--er ... at least he marries
the lady," said the cheery-faced boy, with rather a rueful laugh.
"You'll laugh perhaps on the wrong side of your face before all's done.
But, all right. If we must, we must. You make ready the lots, Watty, and
I'll take first draw. Only, I think if the bad luck's mine, I'll slip
over the side some middle watch," said the senior middy miserably.
With haggard young faces two drew, leaving the third lot to the Scottish
boy.
"Thank Heaven!" cried the first, wiping his brow as he saw that his, at
least, was not a short lot. "It's yours, Watty, old boy," he said to the
middy from north of the Tweed.
"My God! what will my dear old mother say?" groaned the poor boy, with
face grey as his own Border hills in a November drizzle. "Promise me, on
your honour, both of you, to keep this miserable business a dead secret
for ever.... Well, I've got to face it. Bring the woman in, and let's
have it over and get aboard.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263