“He’s a rum one, my lads,” said the second mate to the men. “Let him talk: it pleases him, and it don’t do you any harm.”
“All right, sir,” said one of the sailors: “I don’t mind. He’s pretty free with the terbacker.”
“What?” said the mate, putting his hand in his pocket and fingering one of half a dozen cigars lying loose therein: “has he given you some?”
“Yes, sir, a lot: says it’s real Virginny.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the mate. “Must be pretty well off.—Mind those chests, my lad. Those are ammunition.”
The men went on unloading a rough truck piled up with chests, portmanteaux, and cases of various kinds, before attacking a second truck-load, while the American sat lolling back in his chair, smoking away, his eyes twinkling as he scanned each package in turn and watched for every opportunity to have a word with the busy mate, never letting a chance go by.
“Why, lufftenant,” he said, “why don’t you smoke and make your miserable life happy?”
“Because I’m at work,” said the mate bluffly.
“My skipper don’t stand smoking when we’re busy.”
“Don’t he now? Bit of a tyrant, I suppose,” said the American.