“Matter!” cries the other. “I’ll be shot if it is not enough to make a man run stark staring mad!”
“What is the matter, I ask you?” begs the marine, preparing to recommence the eternal tune.
“Why, there have I been working, and slaving, and wearing my life and soul out, all the forenoon, to please that ill-tempered, snappish, ill-to-please knob of a skipper of ours; and what do I get? Why, he takes mighty good care to shut his eyes to all the good a fellow does, but catches hold eagerly enough of the smallest omission in his thousand-and-one whims (none of which are of any consequence!) in order to indulge himself in one of his reprimands. It’s quite clear,” adds the officer, warmed by this explosion of his own passion, “that the captain has a spite at me, and is determined to drive me out of the ship, to make way for some follower of his own.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaims the peace-making man of war; “the captain is the best friend you have.”
“Friend!” roars the other; “I tell you what——”
But just at this moment the captain’s steward enters the ward-room, and going up to the enraged officer of the forenoon watch, says mechanically to him—
“The captain’s compliments, sir, and will be glad of your company to dinner.”
To which the officer replies, quite as mechanically—
“My compliments, and I’ll wait on him.”
But as soon as the door is shut, he turns again to the marine, and says—