Midshipman Fletcher Goes Up In The World

He looked around. The place seemed to be in order, and they weren't allowed into the slop-room itself. "'Is cabin's prolly in a right state. Us'lly is," he said, and sighed. "Next door. C'mon."

"Goin'." It was probably a given that warrant officers' cabins were in terrible states. Fingers had seen the gunner's, once. And people thought his hammock space was untidy!

"I'll 'elp - ain't nuffin' else t'do in 'ere, any'ow." And it wasn't likely that Fingers' hand had stopped hurting yet. Mister Foxley was pretty hard with that strap, and hadn't looked like he'd gone any easier on the younger boy than he had on Terry himself.

"Blimey," Fingers said, having already headed outside. "You wazzn't lyin'."

"'Course I warn't," Terry said, and sighed. "Dunno why 'e leaves it like this. Prolly 'cause he've got me to go runnin' after 'im. Lazy sod, 'e is, ain't 'e?"

He scowled at the bunk with its blankets all in a tangle, and the things that were strewn all over the place. "You'd fink, 'im 'avin' 'is own cabin, you'd fink 'e'd keep it neat, wouldn't you?"

Fingers shrugged. "S'cuz nobody checks arter him 'bout it," he reasoned, crossing to the bunk to start straightening the blankets. "Glad I on'y gots a hammock, anyways!"

"Prolly," Terry said. "Reckon 'ammicks is comfier any'ow." There was a jacket and a dirty neckcloth draped over the bunk and he rescued them before they landed on the floor and hung them on a peg.

Fingers nodded as he carefully patted a wrinkle out of the newly-straightened blankets. "They is," he agreed. He turned his attention to the small heap of clothes near the bunk. "Ugh. Don't he wash'is things?"

"No more'n 'e ought to," Terry said and wrinkled his nose. "Prolly 'cause nobody gets after 'im for it. They oughta stand 'im on deck an' scrub 'im down like they does us, that's what."

This comment made Fingers giggle. "Tha'd be summat, sure. Course they won't do it fer growed ups."

"Course they won't... though if they gets t'be bad 'nough, I heared that they do. Though prolly not to 'portant folks like pussers." Wouldn't it be something to see, if they did, though? He couldn't help grinning at the thought.

"Mebbe they would, if he waz bad 'nuff." Fingers poked cautiously at the lumpy pillow. It didn't look very comfortable. " 'S there rocks innat?"

"If there is, I di'n't put 'em there. 'E's tight-fisted, that's wot 'e is. Won't issue hisself wiv new stuff 'cause 'e'd pay for it. Even if 'e wouldn't pay so much as you'n'me would." He checked to see that the purser wasn't anywhere nearby and cautiously felt along the shelf, coming up with a couple of pieces of ship's biscuit. He offered one to his friend.

That was no surprise. Pursers hated issuing anything, even necessary things like food and rum. Fingers smirked when his mate held out a biscuit. There were always places to hide things like that.

"Cheers," he said gratefully. "He won't miss 'em, I'll bet."

"nah. If 'e does, 'e'll fink the rats've gottem, that's all." He tapped the biscuit on the table and brushed the resulting crumbs and weevils to the floor. "How's your 'and now?" he asked, wishing he'd been able to stop Mister Foxley from belting Fingers - his friend hadn't deserved that, after all.

His hand? Fingers flexed it cautiously. "Seems a'righ'." He knocked his own biscuit against the table and thought they should've brought the broom with them. "I wunner sometimes if he don' swap salt pork for rats."

"Rats is fresh meat any'ow, an' salt pork ain't." He shrugged. "Prolly does, sometimes." He looked around the tiny cabin that was still bigger than his own hammock space and shrugged. "See, this's why I ain't 'ere alla time - ain't anyfin' else t'do, that I c'n see. Bother it."

"Mebbe." Fingers thought he'd rather salt pork over rat, but didn't say so. Instead, he stuffed the hard biscuit into his mouth and chewed it as best he could. "Cou' sweep't mebbe," he managed around the mouthful.

"I'll get the broom then," he said, hoping that Mister Foxley had cleared off somewhere, though if he wasn't in here, he was likely to be back in the stores. Still, collecting the broom would hopefully show that they were actually doing something useful.

Good plan. While Button headed off to retrieve the broom, Fingers busied himself with folding the clothes near the end of the bunk. They were in desperate need of washing but at least he could make them seem neat. The tawse was gone but he didn't doubt that the purser would find something else horrible to use on them if he thought they were slacking.

Terry was back in a moment with the broom. The purser was sitting at his table, scratching away with his quill and hadn't seemed to notice the tawse's absence, but Terry wasn't going to push and let him know too soon that it wasn't in its usual place. He snatched at the broom, nervously knuckled his forehead and vanished.

"'E don't deserve to 'ave it lookin' so neat 'n' tidy," he mumbled coming back in to the tiny cabin.

"Nope," Fingers agreed, scuffing a bare foot over a stain of some sort on the deck beams. "Will'e turn us loose when we's done?"

"Bloody oughter," Terry said, contenting himself with sweeping the biscuit crumbs, weevils and dust into a pile in the corner. He hoped so, anyway - but there was no telling what the purser was going to do when they were finished. "Can't make us do work that ain't there, any'ow," he added.

That was true. But one could never be sure of anything with warrant officers.

"Mebbe he'll turn us out t'the gunner," Fingers said hopefully.

"Mebbe," Terry replied, looking down at the pile of dust and crumbs he'd swept into the corner. With any luck, it wouldn't be seen - it was a very dark corner, after all. "Don't fink there's anyfin' else t'do in 'ere."