"Hold on!" Hiram expostulated; "you've got to remember that he's a guest, Cap. He's—"
"He's goin' to eat what I give him, after I've been to all the trouble," roared the old skipper.
Mr. Brackett was before the fire in the office, hiccuping with repletion and stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his clay pipe.
"Anything the matter with that duff?" demanded the irate cook, pushing the dish under Mr. Brackett's retreating nose. "Think I don't know how to make plum-duff—me that's sailed the sea for thutty-five years?"
"Never made no such remarks on your cookin'," declared the guest, clearing his husky throat in which the food seemed to be sticking.
"Hain't got no fault to find with that plum-duff?"
"Not a mite," agreed Mr. Brackett, heartily.
"Then you come back out here to the table and eat it. You ain't goin' to slander none of my vittles that I've took as much trouble with as I have with this."
"But I'm full up—chock!" pleaded Mr. Brackett. "I wisht I'd have saved room. I reckon it's good. But I ain't carin' for it."
"You'll come out and eat that duff if I have to stuff it down your thro't with the butt of your hoss-whip," said the Cap'n with an iciness that was terrifying. He grabbed the little man by the collar and dragged him toward the dining-room, balancing the dish in the other hand.