“And I also told you that I was going to sleep in the cabin, and mess with you,” said Tom, decidedly. “Tell somebody to take that bed out of there.”
“Where will Mr. Robson sleep, then?” asked the captain. “The second mate always occupies that room.”
“Well, you can put him somewhere else. I’m bound to have that room.”
“I think, Tom,” said the skipper, quietly, “that you will have to go into the forecastle. There’s where you belong. You rate as ‘boy’ on the shipping articles.”
“But I didn’t agree to go among the men,” said Tom, “and I won’t do it. What do you suppose my father would say if he knew that you wanted me to bunk in the forecastle?”
“I say, captain,” shouted the second mate down the companion-way at this moment, “is that young sea-monkey down there? Ah, here you are!” he continued, discovering Tom. “Lay for’ard into the forecastle, and take care of your donnage. Up you come with a jump.”
“Now what’s my baggage doing in the forecastle?” asked Tom, growing more and more astonished at each new turn of events. “Who put it in there? Tell one of your men to bring it into the cabin at once.”
“Sonny,” replied the mate, shaking his finger at Tom, “come up here!”
There was something in the sailor’s tone and manner that a little alarmed Tom, and led him to draw closer to the captain, as if seeking his protection. But the latter, after pulling off his coat and hanging it up in his state-room, seated himself at the table, and began to examine his chart; and Tom, finding that he was left to fight his battles alone, resolved to do so to the best of his ability. Turning to the mate he replied, angrily: