Mr. McGowan laughed heartily as the Captain brought his song to an unmusical close.
“That song ain’t got much music in it, leastwise not as I sung it, but it’s got a heap of truth. Fact is, Mack, I’m as chuck full of them damn microbes as you be, and I ain’t able to smite ’em. They are right in here,”––he tapped his head,––“and though I ain’t able to say for sure, yet I’ve got a purty good idea that they’re outside, too, and making a heap of trouble in this here burg.
“Now, take those pirates down to the Inn,” continued the seaman. “There’s something brewing down there, and it smells like hell-fire to me that’s doing the boiling. Sim Hicks and his gang are whooping it up a mite too 81 lively for comfort. That’s microbe army number one. Then, there’s Harry Beaver. He says they won’t board you after your month is up.”
“May army number two quickly advance! I shall gladly and willingly surrender.”
“Hey? What’s that? Where in the name of the ship’s cook would you go, I’d like to know?”
“Right here.”
“Right where? You board with me?”
“Why not?”
The old seaman’s face slowly lighted up with appreciation as he fully grasped the meaning of Mr. McGowan’s words, and then suddenly clouded.
“No, Mack. There ain’t no sense in that,” he declared, shaking his head emphatically. “I can keep soul and body together, but what I get on with would kill you. There’s worse things in the world than Eadie’s biscuits. No, I ain’t going to listen to any such out-and-out murder as my cooking would commit.”