“He will not,” said Brandon. “I would run him through if he gave the order. It’s his business to sail the ship to the owners’ satisfaction.”
Mr Dawkins was pacing up and down the poop. Besides the pistol he always carried stuck in his belt, he had worn a sword since his election to the captaincy, and a double brace of pistols in a crimson silk scarf. Saluting the quarterdeck, Pomfrett went up to this formidable commander.
“I should be glad of a talk with you, sir,” said Brandon. “I have a word to say to you that won’t keep.”
“All the samey the provisions?” says Dawkins.
“And as unsavoury, I fear,” said Brandon, unmoved.
“And what may it be, now, Mr Supercargo? Give it mouth. What’s the complaints? I wouldn’t,” said Mr Dawkins, playfully, “give a fig for a super what hadn’t a cargo of complaints.”
“I have to say, sir, on behalf of the owners, that I am dissatisfied with your conduct of the ship, in one particular,” said Brandon, roundly.
“Was you, indeed?” said Dawkins, with unexpected mildness. “Dear me! And if I might make so bold, in what one particular, sir, do the cap’n dis—satisfy Mr Supercargo?”
Brandon explained.
“Well, now, you surprise me, you do, indeed,” said Mr Dawkins, with somewhat ominous levity. “I wasn’t aware of it, I do assure you. Why, I must take a reef on the main-s’l, I see that. I been all wrong. I reckoned the owners was wishful to get their ship into port as soon as might be; that was my mistake, d’ye see. And I take it very kind of you, Mr Pomfrett, to p’int it out. And on my own quarterdeck, too, by the bones of the deep!”