“And I’ll prove you’re a liar!” cried Mr. Tridge, irately, and forthwith struck Mr. Lock a grevious blow on the right eye.
“’Ere—steady!” shouted Mr. Lock.
“’Oo are you giving orders to?” bellowed Mr. Tridge, in high passion, and straightway smote Mr. Lock’s left eye. “Now do you think black cats are always lucky?”
Mr. Lock, sitting down on a convenient doorstep, pressed his palms to his eyes, too engrossed in a species of private astronomy to reply to Mr. Tridge’s question. Mr. Tridge, as one who had creditably sustained the truth of his assertions, cocked his head proudly and walked on. Mr. Lock, recovering after a while, followed him with marked caution, nor did he attempt reprisals. But this magnanimity was less because he knew that no one would be more surprised and apologetic on the morrow over the occurrence than Mr. Tridge, than because Mr. Tridge was altogether a larger and more powerful man than Mr. Lock.
Mr. Tridge, achieving the “Jane Gladys” in grim solitude, made his simple preparations for slumber, and lay down in his bunk with a sigh of weary content. He was fast asleep ere Mr. Lock ventured down to the fo’c’sle and wooed repose.
* * *
“’Strewth!” cried Mr. Tridge, in utter amazement, waking next morning.
Mr. Lock, who had just risen reluctantly to dress, turned an inquiring gaze on his shipmate.
“Now what is it?” he asked, petulantly.
“’Strewth!” exclaimed Mr. Tridge again, staring incredulously at the polychromatic setting of Mr. Lock’s eyes. “Peter, you must ’ave been a-going it last night!” he added, with intense conviction. “My word!”