"We'll stand by her all night," said Trunnell, "and then if the skipper doesn't care to leave her,—which he will, however,—we'll stand away again."
There was little to do, so the watch lounged around the deck and rested from the exertion of the past twenty-four hours. Chips told me I had better come forward after supper and take a smoke in his room, for they were going to come to some conclusion about the fellow Andrews. There had been some talk of putting him aboard the English ship, and if we could get the captain to agree to it, it would be done.
I loafed around until I saw a light between the crack of his door and the bulkhead. Then I slid it back, and entered.
The stuffy little box was full of men. The bos'n, a large man named Spurgen, who had quite a swagger for a merchant sailor, was holding forth to the quartermaster, Hans, on nautical operations.
"An' how'd ye do if ye had an anchor atween, decks widout nothin' to hoist it out wid?" he was saying as I came in.
Hans affirmed, with many oaths, that he'd let the "bloody hancor go bloomin' well to the bottom before he'd fool wid it." This made the bos'n angry, and he opened with a fierce harangue, accompanied by a description of the necessary manoeuvres. He also made some remarks relating to the quartermaster's knowledge of things nautical.
I took occasion to look about the little room while this was going on and my fingers warmed up some. I then seated myself on a corner of the chest near Chips to make myself easy, during which time the bos'n had gained sufficient ground to enforce silence upon his adversary, and relinquish the subject of anchors. Then came a pause during which I could distinguish the "doctor's" voice above the mutterings, and get a whiff of my own tobacco out of the haze.
"—five fat roaches; they'll cure you every time," he was saying to Chips. "It's old man Green's sure remedy, sah, yes, sah. I hearn him tole his ole mate, Mr. Gantline, when he sailed in the West Coast trade."
"Faith, ye may stave me, shipmate, but that would be an all-fired tough dish to swallow," the carpenter declared, with a wry face. "Supposen they didn't die? They would make a most eternal disagreeable cargo shiftin' about amongst your ribs. May the devil grab me, ye moke, if I wouldn't rather swell up an' bust wid th' scurvy than swallow them fellows kickin'."
"Bile 'em, white man," said the cook. "Bile 'em in er pint er water—an' then fling 'em overboard. Who the debble would eat er roach?"