"Good!"
With a wave of his black hand the stoker resumed his way, while the boatswain, yawning, fell to casting his eyes about him. On a locker near the companion of the engine-room a small man in a buff pea-jacket, a new cap, and a pair of boots on which there were clots of dried mud, was seated.
Through lack of diversion the boatswain began to feel inclined to hector somebody, so cried sternly to the man in question:
"Hi there, chawbacon!"
The man on the locker turned about—turned nervously, and much as a bullock turns. That is to say, he turned with his whole body.
"Why have you gone and put yourself THERE?" inquired the boatswain. "Though there is a notice to tell you NOT to sit there, it is there that you must go and sit! Can't you read?"
Rising, the passenger inspected not the notice, but the locker. Then he replied:
"Read? Yes, I CAN read."
"Then why sit there where you oughtn't to?"
"I cannot see any notice."