He had finished telling of an adventure in the China Sea in his grandfather’s ship, Warlock; and during the appreciative pause that followed, the silence was rudely broken by a loud, sneering laugh.
“He pulls a long bow for a youngster,” said a voice; “and you seasoned tars sit around and draw it in like sucking pigs their mammy’s milk.”
Ethan flushed scarlet, and a murmur went up from the watch below. But it was the master’s mate that spoke, a huge-chested Canadian named Blake; and no one among the seamen dared to resent his words, for in his week among them he had, by his ruffianism, cowed them all. A few, at the beginning, had dared to defy him; but his brawny fists had soon beaten them into submission. Indeed, by this time, the forecastle had come to be a sort of grill upon which the bully toasted his shipmates one after the other and laughed at their helpless squirming.
Ethan made no reply to the man’s remark. Longsword, who sat with his broad back against the heel of the bowsprit, grew crimson, and two sharp points of light shot into his eyes; but he made no movement; since the death of Ethan’s father he had come to look upon the lad as his superior officer, and so strong was the military idea fixed in his mind that he never took an important step without orders.
The master’s mate took a seat upon an upturned tub and regarded his mates with a sneering smile.
“It’s amusing,” said he, “to stand and watch you taking in all the plum duff that this boy gives you. I suppose,” with a significant laugh, “you’re duty bound to do it because he’s a friend to the skipper.”
Still there was no reply; Ethan sat still, never even glancing at the man; the seamen shifted uneasily in their places; they felt assured that the bully meant to pick a quarrel with Ethan, and while they did not like it, his demeanor had so awed them that they dared not interfere. Blake seemed to have mapped out his plan of action well in advance, and proceeded.
“It may be an honor to be a friend to a captain, but I don’t know. What sort of captains have you in this American navy of yours? I’ve sailed in British ships, and I tell you they wouldn’t let your skippers swab the quarter deck.”
Still he got no answer, though there was no lack of scowling looks directed at him.
“And this Captain Jones,” he went on, his face alive with malice, “was one time named Paul, I hear, just plain John Paul. He was drove out of the British merchant service for killing a sailor by flogging, and he come to America and changed his name.”