“What do you mean by trouble?”
“Well, for one thing he wouldn’t join their crap-game, and they had words and Larson smashed a couple of their faces.”
“Good Heavens, Wilson! You don’t mean to say that you think the crew was responsible——”
“No, sir. I don’t say anything of the sort.”
He opened the door to step out.
“Wilson!” I said. “Do you think everything is right on board?”
“I don’t, sir,” he said promptly. “I would be blind if I did. But I know that I am right, sir, and I know my duty to my ship.”
Chanler came in for breakfast at that moment. He was apparently pleased at something, but at the sight of our faces his expression changed. He stood for a few seconds, looking first at Wilson, then at myself, greatly displeased.
“You’re a fine looking pair of grouches for a man to look at first thing he gets up,” he said irritably. “Hang it! Here I’ve had my first decent night’s sleep in months: get up feeling like a boy, by Jove! And here you chaps greet me with faces that look like before the morning drink. I won’t have it, you hear! You’re too sober both of you, anyhow. Hang you water-wagon riders! Smile—you! Can’t you look cheerful when you see I want it?”
A slight flush showed beneath Wilson’s tan.