Midshipman Fletcher Goes Up In The World

There was a mocking note in the purser's voice. "You both have a habit for lyin', seems. Pushed him so he'd trip over the broom, did you?"

Fingers bit his lip and resisted the urge to kick spitefully at the broom. Stupid thing!

He nodded, biting his lip. "Was a... was accident, sir," he said. Well, it had been, pretty much. It wasn't like he'd meant for anything to happen to Fingers - and certainly not what Mister Foxley was threatening!

"It's always an accident, isn't it?" Mister Foxley shook his head and lifted his arm.

Fingers braced himself, biting hard on his lip for the first blow. For all his teasing Button about his reaction to the tawse, he had no idea how he would bear up to it himself. But he was about to find out.

The first blow smarted fiercely and the second only compounded the stinging.

Terry couldn't help wincing in sympathy every time the tawse landed. His own hand still hurt and he was in no doubt he was going to get further strokes on top. It was a horrid, hurtful thing, and it was somehow worse watching his friend get it than it was being leathered himself, somehow.

Three, then four. Mister Foxley grunted and turned away to hang the tawse from its nail. "Back to your work," he said sharply. "Or do I have to give both of you another few strokes?"

Fingers clutched his reddened, aching hand to his chest and shook his head. He dared not speak, for he'd bitten his lip in his determination not to utter a sound.

Terry let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and shook his head, chastened. "N... no, sir," he replied, unwilling to risk it, though he was heartily glad he wasn't going to get more strokes on top of the four he'd already had. He bent for the broom, aware that he could cope with it better than Fingers could. It probably wouldn't take much for Mister Foxley to lose it and give him more strokes.

"Good. Be about it, then."

Fingers stared at the broom, his little hand an angry shade of red and held before him, still open. He'd been started before, and had had his ears boxed a couple of times, but he'd never been beaten across his open palm before. It was a very unpleasant thing.

Terry sent his friend a sympathetic look. It was bad enough holding the broom now, when the pain had lessened a bit. He waited till the purser had gone.

"I telled you," he said, and came over to look at Fingers' hand. "You all right?"

He cautiously flexed his hand and winced. The stinging was already fading, slowly. There was blood inside his lip though. It tasted thin and coppery.

"I bite m'lip," he said, sounding surprised.

"Better'n yelling," Terry said. "'E makes me yell at times, 'e does. Telled you he's a bastard, din't I?"

The pain of his own hand had faded by now, though holding the broom was making it throb a bit.

"I din't argue he weren't." Fingers carefully felt the inside of his lip and winced again. The cut didn't feel too bad, at least.

Then he drew himself up and looked smug. He hadn't cried, either.

"True." He started pushing the broom around - he might as well look as though he was doing something, if Mister Foxley came back unexpectedly again. Not that he'd be able to see if the place had been swept or not.

He had a sudden thought, and paused. "Hey, Fingers. I gotta idea."

"Whazzat?" Fingers made himself stop poking at the cut in his lip. It was still oozing blood but he found it impossibly fascinating.

"Though... it'd only work if we could get hold of a rat." Dead, it'd stay where it was put, but alive might be more fun...

"You reckon 'e'd 'ave a fit if 'e found a rat in 'is bunk?" He couldn't help grinning at the idea. "A dead'n'd make 'im think it was Miss Emily got in." He hoped.

A dead rat. Now that was a good idea. "Mebbe," Fingers said with a grin. "Serve'm right!"

But where to find one? The hold was the obvious place, but it was no mean trick to catch a rat down there. Too many places to hide. Unless... "Mebbe Miss Emily's down there huntin'?"

"Dunno." He shrugged. "If she is... mebbe we ought to wait a bit. Y'know, till he ain't goin' to s'spect it's us what've done it."

He didn't want to do any work, but he wasn't sure he particularly wanted to bunk off right now and risk yet another leathering.

Good point. Fingers poked at the inside of his lip with his tongue and winced. "S'pose," he allowed. "Or we cou'd make'at strap disappear."

That sounded a better idea... though Terry wasn't wholly convinced the purser wouldn't find something worse to use. And he'd be sure to know it was them.

"'E'll only find summat else to use," he said, voicing his fears half-heartedly, and brightened. After all, with the strap gone, he couldn't beat them with it before finding something else, could he? "Where shall us disappear it to?"

Fingers smirked. "Sommers inna hold? Be ages 'fore it got foun' there, if t'all."

"How 'bout..." A slow grin came onto his face. "It's dark enough in 'ere, ain't it? 'Ow about in 'ere - when 'e does find it then 'e'll think 'e lost it his own self."

That was true. "Aye," Fingers agreed, padding silently over the deck to retrieve the leather strap. "Where'bouts?"

Now, that was a problem. Terry looked around. The purser's small cabinet with his stores books caught his eye and he crossed over to it.

"'Ere, 'e've left the key in the lock," he said, turning it and pulling the door open. "In there, be'ind that big thick one - 'e don't 'ardly ever 'ave that'n out. Quick!"

Quick was certainly the word. Fingers scurried over and stuffed the tawse in behind the large book. This was grand!

"Serve'm right," he said firmly.

"Too right it will," Terry said, hastily locking the cupboard door again and snatching up the broom. He could ignore the residual pain of his hand now, and he didn't want to give the purser an excuse to discover the tawse's absence too soon.

There. Fingers felt a warm sense of satisfaction at their little revenge. Now that horrid bastard couldn't beat them!

"What now?"

Button had the broom, which left Fingers without any idea of what he might do to look busy, should the purser return.