“I ain’t skulkin’, sir,” replied Tim, meekly.
“Don’t you answer me back,” cried the captain, in a rage, and seizing the milk pitcher as if he intended to throw it at the boy. “If you talk back to me I’ll show you what a rope’s end means.”
Tim actually trembled with fear, and kept a bright lookout, so that he might be ready to dodge in case the pitcher should be thrown, but did not venture to say a word.
“Now bring me my breakfast; and let’s see if you amount to anything, or if I only picked up a bit of waste timber when I got you.”
“What will you have, sir?” asked Tim, timidly, as he moved toward the captain’s chair.
A blow on the side of his head that sent him reeling half-way across the cabin served as a reply, and it was followed by a volley of oaths that frightened him.
“What do you mean by asking me what I’ll have before you tell me what is ready? Next time you try to wait upon a gentleman tell him what there is. Bring me some soda-water first.”
This was an order that he had not been provided for in the lessons given by Mr. Rankin, and Tim stood perfectly still, in frightened ignorance.
“Come, step lively, or I’ll get up and show you how,” roared the captain, his face flushing to a deeper red, as his rage rose to the point of cruelty.