"You tell me wot you want ter see 'im for, and I'll see if it's worth disturbin' 'im for. I'm his bleedin' secretary, I am."
Scholar came wide awake, and rose upon an elbow, to find a semi-circle of backs turned to him, Cockney's back among them; and Cockney's arm was reaching out and brushing those of his shipmates who stood near, or part brushing, part elbow-plucking, part signing to them in an endeavour to form them up between Scholar's bunk and a man in the doorway. Up sat Scholar. He had seen enough of ugly fighting during the last few hours to feel a yearning for a life, nay, an eternity, of peace; but he was in the pack, and he must not let Cockney take the chances of an encounter on his behalf. As the man in the door—and he, too, had a backing of friends—advanced upon Cockney, Scholar sat up. He had the strong resolution to, as they say out West, "make good" here; and it was a resolution that advertised itself on his face as he rose and swung forward.
"All right, Cockney!" he said. "I'm awake."
The forming segment of circle broke. Cockney looked over his shoulder.
"That's hall right. You ain't one of hus. I know 'ow ter deal wiv these fellers. We're shipmites, ain't we?"
"Do you want to speak to me?" said Scholar, looking keenly at the advancing tough.
"Oh! No! They told me a man called Scollard was aboard. I wanted to see a feller called Scollard!" This in a grumbling voice.
"O, yus! This hain't the feller, eh? No! Am hi any use? Would you like to push my face in, eh?"
A voice above shouted: "Come on, mate, come on! She's pushing off!" and the man who wanted to see Scollard hastened away, drawing off his forces in the doorway.
"Thought we were off already!" said Cockney.