“I want to see your skipper.”
“Well, you can't,” declared Shaw, viciously. “He's turned in for the night.”
“He expects me,” said Carter, stamping his foot. “I've got to tell him what happened.”
“Don't you fret yourself, young man,” said Shaw in a superior manner; “he knows all about it.”
They stood suddenly silent in the dark. Carter seemed at a loss what to do. Shaw, though surprised by it, enjoyed the effect he had produced.
“Damn me, if I did not think so,” murmured Carter to himself; then drawling coolly asked—“And perhaps you know, too?”
“What do you think? Think I am a dummy here? I ain't mate of this brig for nothing.”
“No, you are not,” said Carter with a certain bitterness of tone. “People do all kinds of queer things for a living, and I am not particular myself, but I would think twice before taking your billet.”
“What? What do you in-si-nu-ate. My billet? You ain't fit for it, you yacht-swabbing brass-buttoned imposter.”
“What's this? Any of our boats back?” asked Lingard from the poop. “Let the seacannie in charge come to me at once.”