“There,” said Wat, quietly addressing a beech pollard before him; “that’s gratitude for watching over and saving him from being pooked.”
“Of course you saved me from danger, just as any brave man would try to save another, and more especially one of a crew, his skipper. There is no merit attached to that. Now look here, Wat, confess, for I am sure I know.”
“I don’t know about no confessing,” growled Wat; “you’re a skipper, not a priest. S’pose I asked you what you were doing there? If the captain sets such an example, what can you ’spect of the crew?”
Gil twisted his moustache angrily, and then turned sharply on his follower.
“You were not watching me?”
“I arn’t going to tell no lies. No.”
“You as good as say, then, that you were on the same errand as I?”
“I arn’t going to sail round no headlands when there’s a port right in front. I arn’t ashamed. Yes, I were.”
“Look here, Wat Kilby,” said Gil, after taking a step or two up and down in front of the old fellow, who calmly leaned back and gazed straight before him—“look here, Wat Kilby, you have been like a second father to me.”
“Hah!” And then a puff of smoke.