THE RUSSIAN SAILOR'S PLOT
Captain Ponsberry's stern manner made Ostag Semmel wild with hatred, and when he went back to the forecastle after swabbing up the deck he was in a fit mental condition for almost any dark deed.
For a good half-hour he lay in his bunk in a corner, brooding over his ill-luck and wondering what he could do to revenge himself upon both the master of the schooner and Larry. Larry he especially disliked—the very open-heartedness of the young second mate made him long to do the lad harm.
At the end of the half-hour another sailor came in. It was Carl Peterson, his close friend. Peterson was a burly tar who had visited nearly every quarter of the globe. He loved to drink and carouse, and was ever ready to lend a hand in any excitement that offered. There was a rumor that he had once led a mutiny on a Danish merchant vessel, but this he denied, laying the blame entirely on others.
"Is that you, Peterson?" demanded Semmel, in his native tongue, for he knew that the other could speak Russian fluently.
"Yes," came in a rough voice from Peterson. He gave a coarse laugh. "A fine job you made of it, to pour dirty water over Russell and then have to swab up the deck for it."
"Who told you of that?"
"Didn't I see it with my own eyes—and heard what the captain said, too."
"Bah! It makes me sick!" growled Semmel. "I am sick of the ship—the crew—everything!"
Peterson gave a short toss of his head, which was covered with a shock of fiery red hair. "What are you going to do about it? Even if the captain treats you like a dog, what shall you do, Ostag Semmel? He thinks we are all curs—door mats to wipe feet on!"