“Where’s the captain of this——?” and he left the phrase unfinished, finding no epithet sufficiently energetic for his thoughts.
It did not appear whom or what he was addressing; but a head, presumably the cook’s, appeared in answer at the galley door.
“In the cabin, at dinner,” said the cook deliberately, chewing as he spoke.
“Is that cargo out?”
“No, sir.”
“None of it?”
“O, there’s some of it out. We’ll get at the rest of it livelier to-morrow, I guess.”
“I guess there’ll be something broken first,” said Pinkerton, and strode to the cabin.
Here we found a man, fat, dark, and quiet, seated gravely at what seemed a liberal meal. He looked up upon our entrance; and seeing Pinkerton continue to stand facing him in silence, hat on head, arms folded, and lips compressed, an expression of mingled wonder and annoyance began to dawn upon his placid face.
“Well!” said Jim; “and so this is what you call rushing around?”