“I thought you’d like a few,” explained Mr. Billing, “for dinner. They’re good. A bumboat feller brought ’em alongside.”
“Bluid oranges,” exclaimed McAllister. He dug his strong square teeth into the glistening rind, and the red juice squirted over his bony knuckles. “They’ve ay the best flavour.”
They seemed to light up the cabin like golden lamps, warm, glowing, still with the sunlight glory about them. Their fragrance filled the place, aromatic, pungent, cloying.
“I don’t care for ’em,” said the Captain suddenly. “The smell of ’em—too strong.”
He pushed back his chair as he spoke.
“Stuffy,” he muttered; “glad when we can get way on her again.”
He stumped off up the companion ladder: a square, stocky figure of a man, short-necked, broad of shoulder. The two mates looked at each other significantly.
“What bug’s bit the auld deevil now?” said McAllister in a conspiratorial whisper.
“God knows!” returned Mr. Billing. “He’s always this way when he can’t be at his cracking on. Old madman!”
“He’s a fine seaman, though,” replied McAllister. “I’ll say that for him.”