Mr. Reardon sat down heavily, set his derby hat on the floor beside him and replied briefly: “I was.”
Captain Murphy excused himself and drew Matt Peasley out of the room. “God knows,” he whispered hoarsely, “religion should never enter into the working of a ship, and I suppose I'll have to get along with that fellow; but did you mark the Masonic ring on the paw of the Far-Down? And on the right hand, too! The jackass don't know enough to wear it on his left hand.”
“Why, what's wrong about being a Mason?” Matt protested. “Cappy's a Mason and so am I.”
“Nothing wrong about it—with you and Cappy Ricks. That's your privilege. You're Protestants.”
“Well, maybe the chief's a Protestant, too,” Matt suggested, but Mike Murphy silenced him with a sardonic smile.
“With that name?” he queried, and laughed the brief, mirthless laugh of the man who knows. “And he says he's from Belfast! Man, I could cut that Kerry brogue with a belaying pin.”
“Why, Mike,” Matt interrupted, “I never before suspected you were intolerant of a shipmate's private convictions. I must say this attitude of yours is disturbing.”
“Why, I'm not a bigot,” Murphy protested virtuously. “Who told you that?”
“Why, you're a Catholic, and you resent Reardon because he's a Protestant.”
“Not a bit of it. You're a Protestant, and don't I love you like a brother?”