By the time the boys reached the quarter-deck their mates were already at work, moving along swiftly, pushing their swabs ahead of them.
“Take off your shoes. What do you mean by coming here with your shoes on?” demanded the mate.
Somewhat hesitatingly Dan and Sam removed their shoes and stockings, rolled up their trousers and joined their fellows in scrubbing down the decks.
Sam was surly. He plainly did not like the assignment.
“This is a tough job,” he confided to his companion. “I didn’t join the Navy to make a washerwoman of myself.”
“We have got to learn, old chap. We must take our turn. If we complain, we are not fit for the service. You may be an admiral some day; who knows?”
“An admiral? Huh! Nice chance I’ve got to become an admiral—admiral of the scrub gang, you mean.”
“Pipe down the guff,” commanded the mate sternly.
“What’s that mean?” muttered Sam.
“I think he means we are to stop talking.”