Trunnell walked to and fro without a word, while the captain grinned. The fellow at the wheel, Bill Spielgen, a square-cut man with an angular face and enormous hands, stared sullenly into the binnacle.
"It's because he's a daisy," rapped out the skipper. "That's it, Mr.
Rolling, he's a daisy, ha, ha, ha! Split me, if he ain't, ho, ho, ho!
Shorten her down, Trunnell; you're a daisy, and no mistake."
There was a distinct smell of liquor in the light breeze, and as the skipper came within the glare of the binnacle lamp I could see he was well set up. Trunnell went to the break of the poop and called out for the watch to clew down the fore and mizzen skysails. He was much upset at the skipper's talk, but knew better than to show it. The captain now turned his attention to the man at the wheel.
"How d'you head, Bill?" said he.
"West b' no'the," said Bill.
The skipper came to the wheel and stuck his lean face close to the quartermaster's. His glinting eyes grew to two little points and his hooked nose wrinkled on the sides as he showed his teeth while he drawled in a snarling tone:—
"D'you set up for a wit, Bill, that you joke with your captain, hey? Is that it, you square-toed, lantern-jawed swab? Would you like me to rip you up the back, or lam some of the dirt out of your hide, hey? Is that it? Don't make jokes at your captain, Bill. It's bad business."
Then he went on in a more conciliating tone:—
"Just remember that I'm a knight of a round table, or square one either, for that matter, while I'm aboard this boat, and if you forget to mention my title of 'Sir,' every time you speak of me, you'll want to get your hide sewed on tight."
"I beg pardon, sir," said Bill, taking a fresh grip upon the spokes with his great hands.