Next day both Jack and the mate were stiff in the shoulder, but they set to work as early as possible in the afternoon, doing an hour’s calking first and then turning to with the scrubbing-brushes. There were two sleeping-bunks besides lockers in the cabin, all of which had to be swabbed down and then scrubbed. In the middle of this performance, while Jack was on his knees, working away in a corner, he noticed that the sound of the other scrubbing-brush had ceased, and turned to ascertain the cause. He discovered his henchman lying, apparently fast asleep, in one of the bunks.
“What’s the matter? Are you all right, George?” he asked anxiously, springing to his feet.
“Eh? What’s that?” queried George, as though just awakened from deepest slumber.
“Tired?” asked the skipper.
“Why, no; not specially,” replied his chum.
“What’s the idea, then? Come on.”
“Well, I’ve just remembered something,” replied George. “I signed on this ship as chief mate, didn’t I? Well, the chief mate is the navigating officer, isn’t he? I’ve got to know all about the currents and the rocks and charts and stars, and nothing was said, when I was engaged, about me having to scrub the—”
“George Santo,” the skipper began in his best deep voice, “if you’re not out of that in ten seconds you’ll know more about stars than you’ve ever seen in your life. I’m going to empty this bucket of water over that bunk when I say three. One—two—”
With a second to spare, the mate displayed remarkable agility in descending, and became desperately busy once more, to avoid the captain’s wrath.