“Begin, then,” said his friend.
Perrin shut the door, sat down, and began to read that glorious elegy, making a sad business of the changing accents.
While he read, Stukeley sat up and smiled, making rude remarks under his breath. He had retired to his locker-top after dinner, intending to visit Mrs. Inigo as soon as the coast was clear. After half an hour of yawning, he had crept down the alleyway on tiptoe, hoping to find the door ajar, and the handsome woman waiting for him. He noticed that Cammock’s door was open, so that it would be dangerous to attempt the rendezvous; but hearing a murmur of voices he had stolen close to listen. He had expected nothing interesting to himself. He had expected some talk of the situation, possibly some invective, such as he had overheard at other times; but for once he heard something new; something which (as he foresaw) would test the wonderful new scheme which he had made that morning. He half doubted if the scheme would stand the strain; but a little thought convinced him that he ran no risk. So pleasant was the conversation to him that he lingered rather too long, mistaking the intentions of the speakers, so that, when he retreated backwards, he went too swiftly, and made some noise at the door, enough to give Margaret the impression of a step. He had just time to bury his head in the cushions, before Perrin entered. “Fancy old Maggy having the guts,” he said. “We must deal with the little Pill, too. The little dear gets poisonous.” He thought that he would go on deck to pass the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Inigo would have to be abandoned till the morning.
He rubbed his cheeks vigorously to flush them. With a twist of his fingers he ruffled his long black hair, as though he had slept. Then he went yawning down the alleyway, pulling at the skirts of his waistcoat. He looked in at the door of Cammock’s cabin, pretending to be but half awakened. “Did one of you come into the cabin just now?” he asked.
“Yes, I did,” said Perrin. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” he said, gaping. “Only I wondered who it was.”
Mrs. Inigo’s door was shut, so he passed out to the deck. He wished to avoid Captain Cammock, who walked the poop above him. Mr. Cottrill, who had the deck at the moment, was forward with the boatswain, setting up the fore-backstays with the watch. The only person with whom he could converse was Mr. Iles, the second mate, that smart young seaman, who now sat on an inverted wash-deck tub, in the lee scuppers, mending a pair of trousers which he had taken off for the occasion. Puffs of wind sometimes lifted his shirt skirts, displaying his little wiry legs. The sailmaker, who sat on the booby-hatch, putting a new clue into a royal, was telling him, at each puff, to mind the girls didn’t see.
“By gee,” said Mr. Iles, by no means a bashful man, “I wouldn’t mind if der girls did see.”
“They don’t come around so much when a man gets married,” said the sailmaker. “They get shot in the beam with a wet rag.”
“B’gee,” said Mr. Iles, “I don’t know, Sails. B’gee, I seen some married men as didn’t do much shootin’.”