'Get aloft, you Dutch swab,' said Geordie. 'I'll take her for you.'
And Mr. Ware bellowed like a bull, for he had a fine fore-topsail-yard voice, and when it was a real breeze his language rose with the seas and was fine and flowery, vigorous and ornamental and magnificent. While he was in the middle of a peroration which would have excited envy in Cicero, or Burke, or a barrister with no case, he heard the owner shouting. For a private interview with the steward had given Geordie great confidence.
'Mr. Ware, Mr. Ware, I'd be glad if you'd cuss the men less. I don't like it.'
The chief officer collapsed as if he were a balloon with a hole in it, and for the next minute he and the skipper engaged in an excited conversation.
'I can't, can't stand it,' said Ware.
'You must,' said old Smith almost tearfully.
And Ware did stand it. But, when the Patriarch was shortened down and he left the deck, he went below and swore very horribly for five minutes by any chronometer. 'Now I know what Brose feels,' said Ware. 'I've a great sympathy for poor Brose.'
The owner ordered a tot for all hands when they came down from aloft. And he called the cook aft and harangued him from the break of the poop.
'Now, Mr. Spoil-Grub, mind you cook better than you've been doin', or I'll have you ducked in a tub and set your mate to doin' your work.'
He turned to the skipper with a beaming smile in his blue eyes.