It is not to be supposed that among such men in such circumstances everything went harmoniously. At first, indeed, what with having plenty to do in fishing, hunting, building, splitting and drying fish, etcetera, all day, and being pretty well tired out at nights, the peace was kept pretty easily; all the more that Big Swinton had been quelled and apparently quite subdued. But as the stores became full of food and the days shortened, while the nights proportionately lengthened, time began to hang heavy on their hands, and gradually the camp became resolved into the two classes which are to be found everywhere—the energetically industrious and the lazily idle. Perhaps we should say that those two extreme phases of human nature began to show themselves, for between them there existed all shades and degrees, so that it was difficult to tell, in some cases, to which class the men belonged.
The proverbial mischief, of course, was soon found, for the latter class to do, and Grummidge began to discover that the ruling of his subjects, which sat lightly enough on his shoulders during the summer, became a matter of some trouble and anxiety in autumn. He also found, somewhat to his surprise, that legislation was by no means the easy—we might say free-and-easy—business which he had supposed it to be. In short, the camp presented the interesting spectacle of a human society undergoing the process of mushroom growth from a condition of chaotic irresponsibility to that of civilised order.
The chaotic condition had been growing worse and worse for some time before Grummidge was forced to take action, for Grummidge was a man of long-suffering patience. One night, however, he lost all patience, and, like most patient people when forced out of their natural groove, he exploded with surprising violence and vigour.
It happened thus:—
The crew had built for themselves a hut of specially large dimensions, in which they nightly assembled all together round the fires, of which there were two—one at either end. Some of the men told stories, some sang songs, others played at draughts of amateur construction, and a good many played the easy but essential part of audience.
The noise, of course, was tremendous, but they were used to that, and minded it not. When, however, two of the men began to quarrel over their game, with so much anger as to interrupt all the others, and draw general attention to themselves, the thing became unbearable, and when one called the other “a liar,” and the other shouted with an oath, “You’re another,” the matter reached a climax.
“Come, come, Dick Swan and Bob Crow,” cried Grummidge, in a stern voice; “you stop that. Two liars are too much in this here ship. One is one too many. If you can’t keep civil tongues in your heads, we’ll pitch you overboard.”
“You mind your own business,” gruffly replied Dick Swan, who was an irascible man and the aggressor.
“That’s just what I’ll do,” returned Grummidge, striding up to Swan, seizing him by the collar, and hurling him to the other end of the room, where he lay still, under the impression, apparently, that he had had enough. “My business,” said Grummidge, “is to keep order, and I mean to attend to it. Isn’t that so, boys?”
“No—yes—no,” replied several voices.