Instantly the ship was in an uproar. Passengers and sailors came running from all directions. But the master-at-arms had taken up a strategic position at the top of the staircase leading down from the second-class part of the ship, and none of my friends were able to pass him, and come to my assistance.
Single-handed, of course, I could do nothing. They frog-marched me up on to the upper deck, and deposited me panting and perspiring before the captain in his cabin.
I have never seen an angrier man than he was. He literally boiled over with rage, and for ten minutes he told me off as hard as he could. In the end, however, he was obliged to stop owing to want of breath.
Then it was my turn. I asked him how he dared to treat me in such a manner? What had I done to deserve it?
“You know very well,” he shouted in reply. “You threw water over the master-at-arms.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “You were not there.”
“Silence!” he roared. “I’ll have you put in irons.”
“How many sets of irons have you got?” I inquired.
“Oh! About six,” was his reply.
“You’ll want more than that,” I said. “There are about twenty of us in it, all big, hefty chaps. We’ve sworn to stand by one another. Besides,” I added soothingly, “I don’t think it will look very well in the papers, or do you any good with your employers, when it comes to be published broadcast that you could not maintain discipline aboard your own ship without putting half your passengers in irons.”