CHAPTER V.
THE TWO CHAMPIONS.
For a week nothing occurred to relieve the dull monotony of their life. The crew worked early and late, and under the skilful hands of the carpenter and his assistants the masts, spars, and booms that were to take the place of those that had been lost during the gale, began to assume shape, and were finally ready for setting up. The timber of which the most of them were made was brought from the shore, and Frank kept such close watch over the boats, and the crews and workmen who went off in them, that the natives never molested them. If the Malays had kept out of sight on the first day of their arrival, the boys might have believed the island to be uninhabited, for they saw no signs of life there now.
On board the schooner everything was done decently and in order, as it always was. The rescued men were all on their feet now, and able to do duty. All but four of them—those suspected of being escaped convicts—were able seamen, and these lent willing and effective aid in the work of refitting the vessel. They were all Englishmen, but for some reason or other they were not as arrogant and overbearing as the majority of their countrymen seem to be, and the best of feeling prevailed between them and the Stranger’s crew.
For a few days Waters conducted himself with the utmost propriety. He seemed to be awed by his recent narrow escape from death, and so entirely wrapped up in his meditations that he could hardly be induced to speak to anybody. But the impressions he had received gradually wore off as his bruises and scratches began to heal and his strength to come back to him, and he assumed an impudent swagger as he went about his work, that made the second mate look at him pretty sharply. He recovered the use of his tongue too, and began to talk in a way that did not suit the old boatswain’s mate, who one day sternly commanded him to work more and jaw less. This reprimand kept Waters in shape for a day or two, and then he appeared to gain confidence again, and got himself into a difficulty that was rather more serious. Swaggering aft one morning after breakfast with a borrowed pipe in his mouth, he suddenly found himself confronted by the officer of the deck, who stepped before him.
“You have no business back here,” said Mr. Parker. “Go for’ard where you belong.”
Waters took his pipe out of his mouth, and drawing himself up to his full height, scowled down at the officer, “Look ’ere,” said he, with his English twang; “hif you knowed me, you’d know hit’s jist a trifle dangerous for heny man of your hinches to stand afore me.”
“I am second mate of this vessel,” answered Mr. Parker, hotly, “and any more such language as that will get you in the brig. Go for’ard where you belong.”
Like a surly hound that had been beaten by his master, Waters turned about and went back to the forecastle. He was sullen all that day, and “soldiered”—that is, shirked his work—so persistently that the old boatswain’s mate was almost beside himself.
“I don’t like the cut of that fellow’s jib, cap’n,” said Barton, as he ranged up alongside of Frank that night after the boats had been hoisted at the davits, and the boarding nettings triced up. “He’s spoiling for a row. He says if Lucas calls him a lubber again he’s going to knock him down. He’s no good. Do you know what he was going aft for this morning? Well, I do. He was going to take a look at the old man’s strong box. You know it stands in the cabin right where you can see it through the skylights.”
“Why did he want to take a look at the strong box?” asked Frank. “Has he any designs upon it?”