He stood in the doorway of the galley. His slender, tall body swayed slightly, and from the glazed expression of his eyes, Sandy and Jerry could guess that he was drunk. There was a bottle bulging in his hip pocket, and Sandy recognized it as the one from which someone had poured that drink of rum for him abovedecks.
“So!” Mr. Briggs lisped in a drink-thickened voice. “So Ma Kennedy’s little chicks don’t trust their skipper, eh?”
“You’d better get some sleep, Mr. Briggs,” Sandy said evenly.
The mate flushed angrily.
“Don’t tell me what to do, you double-crossing little show-off!” he grated. “Here, stand aside there, and let a man pass.”
He stepped into the galley, grinning wickedly, plainly unaware of how he wavered on his feet and disgusted, rather than frightened, the two youths. He all but fell as he moved to the little table on which Cookie had served them their breakfasts that morning. He sat down at it and pulled out the nearly empty bottle of rum and stood it at his elbow.
“So you’re going to run and tell tales out of school, hey? Going to tattle on us, are you?” He brought his hand down on the table top with a crash. “Not if I can help it!”
The rum bottle jumped and nearly fell to the floor. But Mr. Briggs grabbed it just in time. He threw back his head and tilted the bottle to his lips. “Ahhhh!” he said. “Now, serve me my dinner!”
Neither Sandy nor Jerry moved.
“You hear me?” the mate yelled angrily. “I’m mate aboard this scow. Bring me my dinner!”