“Don’t, sir,” began Harry; “I wish to—”
“Don’t answer me. Up you tumble. Here, one o’ you greenhorns, standing there with your fingers in your mouths, up with the boy’s bag, and send it below.”
“If you please, sir, I want to speak with the captain, I—”
“Oh, you do, do you?” sneered the mate, in a mocking tone. “He wants to speak to the captain, does he? Perhaps he wants to make a complaint, and say the first mate scolded him. Never been to sea before, poor boy. Has he brought his feather-bed and his night-cap, and a bottle of hot water to put at his feet? A pretty ticket you’d be to go and speak to the captain.”
“But, sir, I—”
“Don’t answer me,” cried the mate, talking now in a loud, commanding voice. “If you say as much as one word more, or half a word, I’ll rope’s-end you within an inch of your life. Now for’ard you fly. Down below till we’re clear off. You are no use on deck. Only have your toes tramped.”
Harry opened his mouth to speak.
The mate made a rush for a rope.
Harry ran, and dived down the fore-hatch.
There was a little old man poking the huge galley fire and stirring soup with a ladle at one and the same time. He had no more hair on his head than the lid of a copper kettle, and he did not wear a cap either.