"I do, and if the general manager prefers my job, I'll trade with you and guarantee to do your work better than it's being done."
"Yes, you will!" old Tom growled, as he leaned over Barbara and whispered to Norman.
"Make it thirty dollars a month, and if he don't go to work—leave him to me, I'll beat him till he does it."
"No, we can't manage it that way, Tom. We must try to satisfy him."
"Hit's a hold-up, I tell ye—highway robbery—the triflin' son of a gun! Don't you say so, miss?" Tom appealed earnestly to Barbara.
"We must have cooks, Tom—and we want everybody to be happy."
"Make him cook, make him—that's his business—I'd do it if I knowed how. He's got to take what we give 'im. He can't git off this island. He enlisted for five years. If he deserts, court-martial and shoot him."
In spite of old Tom's bitter protest, Norman and Barbara succeeded in persuading the chief cook to accept eighty-five dollars a month—an advance of ten dollars over the highest wages he had ever received before.
When the eighteen assistant cooks lined up for the settlement of their wages a new problem of unexpected proportions was presented. They had listened attentively to the case of the chef, and their chosen orator presented his argument in brief but emphatic words:
"We demand the exact wages you have voted the chef."