Matters were therefore strained, and the more they were so the more Mead liked it. “Don’t let me catch you ashore,” had been his way of passing Sparks the time of day in port; at sea, he growled abuse at him whenever he saw him, and if no better occasion offered itself, would suddenly thrust his face in all the semblance of murderous intention through the open porthole of the young man’s room and utter calm, deliberate, and unnatural purposes.
In this feud, my position was not comfortable. Unlicked as he was (up to the present) and devoid of fine points, the Marconi, whose cabin was neighbour to mine, wished me no harm, and even sought my esteem. Mead, whom I did esteem, was discontented with any half-measures on my part, and in any case I felt bound to observe neutrality. But the capers of my angry friend were often amusing, the declarations of duty conscientiously executed by his bête noir–Mead had a weakness for style–were not. And it is scarcely necessary to repeat, the general view of Sparks was not a moral support to Mead even if he had “no case.”
On the occasion that I described, Mead had decided to drive his point well home with the aid of rhyme. I took a copy of his somewhat indecorous production. It had many “spirited couplets,” embodying considerable observations:
To see you promenade the deck
Gives me a pain in my ruddy neck.
Sparks had been unwise, again, in mentioning his pleasure in the slaughterer’s trade, and past experience. Mead did not miss the opportunity.
If the blood of sheep could make you glow
Come and dare to make mine flow.
I am no hero out for gore,
I had the wind up in the war.