"What's the matter, Mr. Jones?" asked the captain, coming to the break of the poop.
"Nothing, sir, nothing," said Jones, foaming at the mouth, "only this ratty hoodlum isn't sober yet. I'll have him in my watch if Mr. Ladd hasn't any fancy for him."
"Sir," said Gawthrop, still in a sitting position, "I'm not a sailor, and have been put on board against my will. My name's Gawthrop—Sibley Gawthrop of Menlo Park. I'm well known in San Francisco."
"Dry up!" said Jones; "known to the police, I should say. And your name's either Fisher or Bates. And where's that other josser? I'll soon see if he's one of the same sort."
He shot forward, and was presently seen emerging from the foc'sle holding the astounded Hunt by the nape of the neck. He ran him aft and discharged him like a catapult right among the men. He fell down alongside Gawthrop.
"Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones," said the skipper mildly. But if he was going to remonstrate with Jones on his American methods, the two hands who had caused the fuss put him off. For Hunt and Gawthrop, on recognising each other, as they did now in spite of their high colouring, lost no time in speech, but went for each other without a word. They locked together and rolled headlong into the starboard scuppers; for though the ship was on an even keel with a fine northerly breeze, the deck had a big camber to it. Then Captain Singleton lost all his mildness at this outrageous insult to his high authority.
"Pull them apart," he roared, as Jones dived for Gawthrop's ankle, and two of the crew got Hunt by the legs. "What the devil does this mean?"
"It means he's had me shanghaied," said Hunt. "I know it."
"And you—oh, I'll kill you," spluttered Gawthrop.
"Send them both up here," said the captain. He stared at them like a fury when they stood before him. No two harder looking cases ever had an interview with a skipper, for Gawthrop was bleeding from the nose, and Hunt had lost all his shirt but the neck-band. They glared at each other, and Jones stood between them ready.