“You’ve got a shiner on your eye, my lad,” thought Cray, “and you mess with the crew. They’ll be eating any moment now. I think we’d better not wait. We’ll begin with you.”
He followed the old captain of the Cora to his cabin.
When the passengers who messed with the skipper came in to lunch, that worthy’s chair was vacant. Cray it was who greeted them, smiling at Drake, bowing stiffly to tall Quayle.
“Old Man’s busy,” said Cray. “Don’t wait for him, gentlemen.”
That was Wednesday. On Thursday the fat engineer M’Ginley sought the warm lee of the funnel once more. Drake was there, waiting.
“I made my peace with Cray. If he was mad about what I said, he didn’t show it.”
“A bad case,” the fat old chief growled. “There’s more in this ship than ballast. There’s a mystery.”
“Eight little mysteries,” Drake jeered, “of which one is my humble self. Maybe nine, counting Cray. Or ten—”
“What you alludin’ to now?”
“You, honest old M’Ginley.”