“Confound you, boy, what are you doing there?” gasped Dixon, becoming suddenly so excited that he dropped the bottle to the soft carpet.
Tom flushed at the use of the word “boy.” On his own craft he was wholly entitled to be called “captain.” But he replied, steadily:
“Pardon me, Mr. Dixon, but I saw you doing something with the bottle, and I waited so that I wouldn’t take the risk of jogging your elbow in passing you.”
Oliver Dixon, a little pale about the mouth, and with a suspicious look in his eyes, stared at the young sailing master.
“Well, what are you doing here, anyway?”
The tone and manner were so offensive that Halstead flushed in earnest this time, though he answered, quietly enough:
“Pardon me, Mr. Dixon, but as commander and part owner, I don’t have to explain my presence in any part of this craft.”
“You were spying on me!” hissed the other, sharply.
Tom Halstead opened his eyes very wide.
“I might ask, Mr. Dixon, whether you are in the habit of doing things that would interest a spy?”