CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
WE LOSE OUR PRISONERS.
"Here he is," cried Barkins, who was resting his leg; while Smith was sitting by the open window so as to catch all the air he could.

"Got your promotion ?" "Got my what ?" I cried.
"Promotion.

I never saw such favouritism.

Always being sent for to the skipper's cabin.

I wonder Reardon stands it." "Don't talk nonsense," I cried.