"Put your lousy 'ead in 'ere again and I'll murder you," said the cook. "I won't 'ave no bloomin' bad language in 'ere," he added warningly to the others. "There's a damned sight too much of it on this bug-trap."
He again lifted up his voice in song.
"And sinners plunged beneath the flood,
Lose all their guilty sta—a—ains."
He paused to administer a cutting admonition to one of his assistants.
"Lose all their guilty stains," he trilled forth, pouring the hot water in which potatoes had been boiled, into the iron kettle that held the crew's tea.
In another part of the ship, under the lee of the forecastle a second and somewhat different meeting was in progress. Jasper Skelt, ex-boatswain of the Esmeralda, was addressing half a dozen men in fierce whispers, emphasising his remarks with violent gestures of the head and hands. The men listened, placidly smoking their pipes and occasionally turning a nervous glance towards the bridge to make sure that they were not being observed by the Captain.
"What proof have we that this boat is a licensed privateer?" Skelt was saying—or rather, whispering—"only the Captain's word. We ain't seen his Letters of Marque and ain't likely to. Why?"
The orator paused as if for a reply. It came.
"'Cause the first man 'as asked to see 'em 'ud get murdered," said one of the audience.
For a moment Skelt was disconcerted by the subdued laughter which followed this answer. But he pulled himself together and went on: