The captain gave his head a nod.
“Up with you then, my lad. Shall I send a man to lash you to the rigging?”
“Yes, sir, when I ask,” cried Steve: and taking the bundle of pieces of wood under his arm he began to mount steadily.
“Pass the word for the cook,” cried the mate angrily; and as Steve reached the top he paused to rest a moment, and looked down to see that the cook had come out of the galley and presented himself before his officers.
“Here!” cried the mate, “take this boy, cook, and set him to peel potatoes and scour your pots. He’ll never make a sailor.”
“Na,” whimpered the lad, “I didna come to sea to peel potatoes. My mither said—”
Steve did not hear what Watty’s “mither” had said, for the cook made a rush at him, caught him by the scruff of the neck, and ran him into the galley, closely followed by Skene-dhu, the dog, snapping and barking at their heels in a way which hastened Watty’s pace and stopped all resistance.
Half laughing, half pitying the boy, but with a blending of contempt, Steve resumed his climb, till, looking up, he found the Norwegian sailor just above him.
“So you’ve come, eh, my lad?” he said in perfect English.
“Yes, I’ve come.”