“I’ve got no business on deck. I can’t be of any use up there; besides, I am sleepy, and I want to go to bed.”
“Well, then, lay for’ard into the forecastle, where you belong,” said the mate.
“I tell you I don’t belong there!” exclaimed Tom, almost ready to cry with vexation; “and, what’s more, I am not going there. I want you to remember that this is my father’s vessel, and you had better mind what you are about. And, see here, Mr. Robson! you have put your baggage in my room, and I want you to take it out of there at once. That’s my room.”
The mate, instead of replying, came down the stairs, and, seizing Tom’s arm with a grip that brought tears to his eyes, exclaimed:
“I want no nonsense, now! If you don’t obey orders, I’ll take a bit of a rope’s-end to you. Now go for’ard on the run.”
Tom struggled desperately to free himself from the mate’s grasp, but, finding that his efforts were unavailing, he appealed to the captain for protection.
“See here, captain!” he shouted, “are you going to sit there and see me abused in this manner, when my father owns this vessel?”
“I can’t help you, Tom!” replied the captain. “That gentleman is one of the officers of this schooner, and must be obeyed. If you will take my advice, you will do just what he orders you to do.”
Tom, however, did not see fit to follow this advice, but still continued to struggle with the mate, when the latter tightened his grasp on his arm, and, pulling him up the stairs in spite of his resistance, he hurried him across the deck, and pushed him down into the forecastle, exclaiming: