With a sudden jerk Rock Cod obtained his freedom, though not without additional agony. He faced his partner, with revenge in his wild eyes and curses on his tongue. But just at this moment, a stoutly-built, red-faced sailor pushed his way through the Pilot’s crew, and, snatching the barracouta from the Italian, he thrust himself between the combatants.
“Of all the mad-headed Dagoes that God A’mighty sent to curse this earth you, Macaroni, are the maddest. Why, man, folks can hear your yelling half the length of the quay.”
“Looka!” cried the Italian. “Who are you? Why you come ’ere? Rocka Codda and Macaroni fighta, but ze ginger-headed son of a cooka mus’ interfere. Jesu Christo! I teacha you too. I got ze barracouta lef’.”
He turned to seize another fish from the bottom of the boat, but the sight of two men fighting on the slip with barracoutas for weapons might detract too much from the dignity of the Pilot’s crew. The Italian was seized, and forcibly prevented from causing further strife.
“D’you think I came here to save Rock Cod from spoiling your ugly face?” asked the red-haired man. “No, siree. My boss, Mr. Crookenden, sent me. He wants to see you up at his office; and I reckon there’s money in it, though you deserve six months’ instead, the pair of you.”
“Heh? Your boss wanta me? I got plenty fisha, flounder, barracuda, redda perch. Now then?”
“He don’t want your fish: he wants you and Rock Cod,” said the red-headed man.
“Georgio”—the Italian was, in a moment, nothing but politeness to the man he had termed “ginger”—“we go. Ze fisha?—I leava my boat, all my fisha, here wit’ my frien’s. Georgio, conducta—we follow.”
Accompanied by the two fishermen, the red-headed peacemaker walked up the quay.
“What’s the trouble with your boss?” asked Rock Cod. “What’s ’e want?”