The two mates stood scowling over the poop-rail at the mob of well-battered and singularly tattered men, who clustered in a sullen, silent group on the maindeck.
The mate, taking the first pick, slowly threw his eyes over the crowd in hesitation.
Then he called out Hank, a long, tough Yankee already mentioned, who lurched leisurely to the port side.
A whirling belaying-pin interrupted his meditations, and Black Davis roared like an angry lion.
"Snakes alive, d'yew think we're goin' ter idle 'round all day while y're takin' a pasear? Skip, ye great, long, whisky-soakin' swab."
Hank did skip with remarkable agility as the pin whistled past him.
Then came the second mate's turn.
"Hyeh, yew, what's your ugly name?" he cried, pointing to Jack.
"Derringer, sir," answered the rolling-stone.
"Git over to starboard, Mister Derringer, sir!" he growled, and there was vitriol in his voice.