"We wants a private talk with you, sir," said Eales, who had never met Lant before, and was more scared of him than he would have been of any admiral. For Lant and Gulliver's reputation is world-wide—all men who go down to the sea in ships know them.
He wrinkled his brows at them and considered for a moment. Then he led the way into the private snuggery, in which as much scoundrelism had been concocted as if it had been the head office of a great Trust or the Russian Foreign Office.
"Spit it out," said Lant as he sat down.
"We're in the Enchantress, sir," said Eales.
"And you want to get out, eh? What's my runners about? Haven't they bin aboard of you yet?"
He frowned savagely, and Eales hastened to acquit any of his myrmidons of such gross negligence.
"Oh yes, sir," he said, "they've been down every day, but on'y one man 'as quit. We don't want to leave 'er, but we ain't satisfied with the skipper, sir, and we know, or at least we suspect, that 'e ain't no favourite of yours neither, Mr. Lant, sir."
"Well, and if he ain't?" said Lant.
"'E do abuse you something awful; don't 'e, Corlett?"
"Awful," said Corlett; "it's 'orrid to 'ear 'im."