“Even if you have to knock it into our heads with a belaying pin, I suppose,” grinned Tom.
“I hope it won’t be necessary to use such strong persuasion,” smiled Benton. “Still, that’s the time-honored method at sea, you know.”
“It must make a difference when the crew are part owners in the vessel, though,” remarked Dick.
“Oh, that makes all the difference in the world,” laughed the ex-marine. “If I get rough, I suppose you’d fire me at the first port of call, so I’ll have to try and act nice.”
“You’d better,” threatened Phil. “We may get to be experts at handling belaying pins, too.”
“Stow that talk, you swabs,” exclaimed Tom, assuming a fierce scowl. “Heave a bucket over the side and scrub down the decks. Step lively, you slab-sided sons of sea cooks. Shiver me toplights, but you’re slow. I’ll—”
“You’ll dry up, that’s what you’ll do,” said Phil, as he and Dick landed on Tom and proceeded to shove his head into the soft seat cushions. “See if that will take some of the saltiness out of you.”
Sounds of muffled expostulation came from the depths of the seat, and at last Tom struggled free with a face that was fairly crimson from partial suffocation.
“Why don’t you throw me out of the window and kill me quick?” he asked in an injured tone. “I was just trying to get you a little familiar with nautical language, and that’s what I get for my trouble. I’d be better off if I left you steeped in ignorance.”
“We don’t mind being ignorant,” Dick assured him. “We can’t all hope to know as much as you.”