With this parting shot the lad disappeared, leaving the captain to splutter and fume and wonder if there was any hidden meaning in his remark. “If it warn’t for his shooting,” he muttered, “I’d set him ashore on the first land we make, and I don’t know but what I’d better get rid of him anyway, afore he stirs up a mutiny.”
Then he went on deck, where he made things so lively for the next five minutes, and sent the crew scurrying hither and thither with such agility by his fiercely worded and loudly bellowed orders, that when he went below for breakfast he actually forgot to find fault with the cook for having served the meal so long before that its several dishes had grown cold.
[CHAPTER XII]
CAPTAIN DUFF’S SHREWDNESS
Although Phil Ryder was generally a hearty eater, he had a dainty taste, and was very particular about his food. It must be what he liked, it must be cooked just so, and, above all, it must be served with cleanliness, or he would rather experience a considerable degree of hunger than touch it. In this he had been encouraged by his aunt Ruth, and, to a certain extent, by his father. Now, therefore, he found the Seamew’s table so far beneath his standard of perfection, and so very different from those to which he had been accustomed, that he barely tasted the food prepared for that breakfast. He refused the coffee—which, as Captain Duff was a great coffee-drinker, was of a better quality than that usually furnished aboard-ship—nibbled at a bit of hardtack, and then pushed back his stool.
“What’s up?” inquired the captain, noting this movement with surprise. “Feeling squeamish? I thought you never got seasick.”
“No, sir, I’m not feeling squeamish, and I’m not in the habit of getting seasick.”
“Then why don’t ye eat?”
“Because I’m not hungry.”