“Well, you must admit that that isn’t my fault,” said Ned.
“I don’t admit anything of the sort,” snarled Sharp. “If it hadn’t been for your Sunday-school way of sneaking around, the fleet would have sailed without me.”
“You’re a nice navy man, I must say,” said Ned contemptuously, turning on his heel.
“Just as good as you are, and maybe better, Mister Know-it-all. I’ve been in the service twenty years, and——”
“You are still where you started.”
Ned, ordinarily the most even tempered of lads, was beginning to resent Sharp’s slurring tone and could not have foregone this thrust.
Sharp’s face grew as dark as the slate-colored sea racing by far below them. He approached Ned with his eyes blazing like hot coals.
“So you’ll make game of me, eh, my young rooster? Well, you’ll regret it to the last day you live; I tell you that right here and now.”
“Oh, don’t bother me, unless you can talk sense,” said Ned impatiently.
“I’ll talk sense fast enough. I hate you, Strong.”