Captain Threthaway flushed angrily. His thin, ascetic jaw set with Puritan stubbornness as he retorted:
"When I can't sail a ship without supplying liquor to the crew, I'll retire, Mr. Gross."
"Don't misunderstand me, captain," Peter Gross replied, with quiet patience.
"I'm not disagreeing with your teetotaler principles. They improve a crew if you've got the right stock to work with. But when you take grog away from such dock-sweepings as Smith and Jacobson and that little Frenchman, Le Beouf, you take away the one thing on earth they're willing to work for. We had all we could do to hold them in hand at Melbourne, and after the contrary trades we've bucked the past week, and the heat, their tongues are hanging out for a drop of liquor."
"Let them dare come back drunk," the captain snapped angrily. "I know what will cure them."
"They won't come back," Peter Gross asserted calmly.
"Then we'll go out and get them," Captain Threthaway said grimly.
"They'll be where they can't be found," Peter Gross replied.
Captain Threthaway snorted impatiently.
"Look here, captain!" Peter Gross exclaimed, facing his skipper squarely. "Batavia is my home when I'm not at sea. I know its ins and outs. Knowing the town, and knowing the crew we've got, I'm sure a stop there will be a mighty unpleasant experience all around. There's a Chinaman there, Ah Sing, a public-house proprietor and a crimp, that has runners to meet every boat. Once a man goes into his rumah makan, he's as good as lost until the next skipper comes along short-handed and puts up the price."