“All right, Mr Dale.”
“Hulloa, cookie, what’s for dinner?” said the man who had just been relieved from taking his trick at the wheel. “Oh!—didn’t know you were here, sir.”
“Chump end of a hurdy-gurdy and organ sauce, messmate,” said the cook, meaning to be very facetious, while I walked out of the galley, passing the man who had been sitting aft talking to the steersman.
I reported the progress of what I had done to Mr Brymer, and then waited for further orders.
“I think I’ll stand out of this business altogether now, Dale,” he said. “Wait a few minutes and then take one of the men, say Dumlow, and serve out the stuff to them, passing down a fresh supply of biscuits as well. What’s the matter?”
I flushed up.
“I—I don’t quite like doing it, Mr Brymer,” I said.
He looked at me angrily, but his face softened directly.
“No,” he said, “it is not a pleasant task. It seems treacherous and cruel, but I cannot show myself in the matter. They might turn suspicious. Some one in authority must go, and it is a work of sheer necessity. You will have to go, Dale.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll go,” I said firmly. “I don’t like it, but I know it is right.”