CHAPTER VIII.
PHIL JONES.
I found the forecastle of the Spitfire a dark and rather unwholesome place. The ventilation was bad, and the smell of tar and oakum was so strong that for a moment I had to turn away to catch my breath.
Luckily my bunk was close to the doorway, so I had the best light the place afforded. Close to me was a chest, and upon this I sat down to think.
It would be hard to express my feelings at this moment. Had I gone on board the Spitfire of my own will I would not have considered the matter as bad. True, I had no great fancy for a life on the ocean wave, such as most boys are supposed to cherish. I knew that at best it was little better than a dog's existence.
"Hello, there!"
I looked up. A boy several years younger than myself stood near me. He was thin and pale, and his eyes had a frightened look.
