The door swung to with a crash, a blast of chill wind and rain blew in on us, the lamp flickered and flared, a dripping oilskin-clad figure clambered over the washboard.
"Door! door!" we yelled as he fumbled awkwardly with the handle.
"Oh, shut up! Ye'd think it was the swing-door of a pub. t' hear ye shouting!" He pulled heavily, and the broken-hinged baulk slammed into place. It was Jones, of the other watch, come in to turn us out.
"Well, I'm hanged!" He looked around the house—at the litter on the floor, at the spurting water that lashed across with the lurch of her. "Why don't some of ye bale the place out 'stead of standing by t' shout 'Door, door!' when there's no need? Damn! Look at that!" She lurched again. A foot or more of broken water dashed from side to side, carrying odds of loose gear with it. "Egad! The port watch for lazy sojers—every time! Why don't ye turn to an' dry the half-deck out? Oh no; not your way! It's 'Damn you, Jack—I'm all right!' with you chaps. Goin' on deck again soon, eh? Why should ye dry up for the other watch, eh? ... Oh! all right. Just you——"
"Oh, dry up yourself, Jones!" Hansen sat up in his bunk and turned his legs out. "What you making all the noise about? We've been balin' and balin', and it's no use! No use at all ... with that covering board working loose and the planks opening out at every roll.... What's up, anyway? ... All hands, eh?"
"Yes. 'All hands wear ship' at eight bells! We've just set the fore lower tops'l. Think we must be getting near the Western Islands by the way th' Old Man's poppin' up and down. It's pipin' outside! Blowin' harder than ever, and that last big sea stove in the weather side of the galley. The watch are at it now, planking up and that.... Well, I'm off! Ye've quarter an hour t' get your gear on. Lively, now! ..." At the door he turned, eyeing the floor, now awash. "Look here, young 'un"—to poor, woebegone Munro—"the Mate says you're not to come on deck. You stay here and bale up, an' if the damn place isn't dry when we come below I'll hide the life out o' ye! ... Oh, it's no use screwin' your face up. 'Cry baby' business is no good aboard a packet! You buck up an' bale the house ... or ... look out!" He heaved at the door, sprawled over, and floundered out into the black night.
Munro turned a white, despairing face on us elders. We had no support for him. Hansen was fumbling with his belt. I was drawing on my long boots. Both of us seemed not to have heard. This was the way of the half-deck. With Eccles it had been different. He was only a second voyager, a dog-watch at sea—almost a 'greenhorn.' There was time enough for him to 'chew the rag' when he had got the length of keeping a regular 'wheel and look out.' Besides, it was a 'breach' for him to start bossing about when there were two of his elders in the house. We could fix him all right!
Ah! But Jones! ... It was not that we were afraid of him. Either of us would have plugged him one at the word 'Go!' if it had been a straight affair between us. But this was no business of ours. Jones was almost a man. In a month or two his time would be out. There could be no interference, not a word could be said; it was—the way of the half-deck.
Swaying, sailor-like, on the reeling deck, we drew on our oilskins and sea-boots, buckled our belts, tied down the flaps of our sou'westers, and made ready. While we were at it Munro started on his task. He filled the big bucket, dragged it half-way to the door, then sat down heavily with a low cry of dismay.
"What's the matter, Kid, eh?" said Hansen kindly. "Got the blues, eh? Buck up, man! Blue's a rotten colour aboard ship! Here, hand me the bucket!"