“Now, then, stay there! If I catch a glimpse of your ugly figure-head on deck again to-night, I’ll use a rope’s-end on you. Now, that’s gospel!”
There were several sailors in the forecastle arranging their beds, and nothing but pride restrained Tom from giving full vent to his troubled feelings in a flood of tears. But even here he was not safe; he had escaped from one source of annoyance only to be immediately assailed by another; for, as he came rapidly down the stairs, assisted by a violent push from the mate, one of the sailors exclaimed:
“Here he comes! Just look at him! Mates, that’s the chap as wants to learn to be a cap’in.”
“You don’t tell me so!” chimed in another. “Sonny does your mother know you’re here?”
“Just look at his riggin’!” said another, having reference to Tom’s suit of new clothes. “He looks like a Dutch galliot scudding under bare poles!”
“An’ them white hands,” said the one who had first spoken, “they’re just the thing for a tar-bucket.”
These were but few of the greetings Tom received upon his advent into the forecastle. Had he been wise, he would have listened to them as good-naturedly as possible; but the tone in which they were spoken irritated him, and he took no pains to conceal the fact.
“Now, you hush up,” he shouted. “This is my father’s vessel. I’ll have you taught better manners the minute we get ashore again.”
This only made matters worse. The sailors gathered about him, pulling him first one way and then another, all the while ridiculing his dress or his appearance, until Tom, unable to escape from their clutches, or to endure their taunts, began to cry.
“Look at that! He’s pumping for salt water!” said one.