“Get out,” said the other; “I don’t mean him, I meant the gal.”
“Yes, she ain’t bad to look at,” said the first. “That’s her as Oakum was talking about.”
“That it warn’t,” said the other; “’twas the little pale one.”
“Just you two get on with that sail, will you,” said a gruff voice behind them; “and leave the women passengers alone.”
One of the men looked across at the other, and grinned, and they went on with their work, while Sam Oakum walked grumbling forward.
“I wish they wouldn’t have no women aboard,” he muttered half aloud.
“Why not?” said the doctor, who overheard him, and, facing round, Sam found him standing there with the tall young naturalist, whom the men, with their tendency at sea to nickname everyone, had christened Pigeons.
“Why not?” growled Oakum, scowling across at old Rasp, between which two a deep dislike had sprung up. “Because—though someone here as I won’t name will contradict every word I says—they ain’t no good. They sets the men talking about ’em instead of doing their work; they consooms the stores; they causes the ship to be littered with green stuff and fresh meat; and, what with them and invalids, my deck’s always in a mess. Why here’s a cow and chickens, and a goat and ducks, and ’Pollo milking every morning to get some thin blue stuff like scupper washings, and the whole place turned into a farm-yard, and all because of the women. Blame ’em! I wish there warn’t one on the face of the blessed earth.”
“Hear him,” said one of the two sailors who had just spoken; “hear him, Bob,” for they were dragging the sail aft as Oakum spoke. “He was crossed in love when he was green.”
“Women’s right enough at times,” said Bob, a dull heavy fellow, with a dreadful squint, one of those distortions of the eyes which cause the owner to look behind his nose, which in this case was a very thick one. “I’m right sorry for that little one there, though, for she seems mighty bad.”