As this was five times as much as any mate I had ever heard of received, I told him I would consider the matter closed.
“An’ your friend, here. I take it he is an American, too,--an’ a sailorman from clew to earring.”
Richards looked at him steadily.
“You are a right smart of a guesser, Mr. Watkins,” said he. “I was second in the Washington, but I’ve been in better ships.”
The insolence of old Peter calling the captain mister was almost too much for me. Here was a chance of a lifetime. I turned upon him.
“If you are going to act foolish with one drink of ale, just for a chance to back down, you better get ashore,” I snapped.
“I’ve seen many men more sensible drunk than you are sober, Heywood,” said he, looking calmly at me, “but I’ll not back down.”
“Will you accept the same terms?” asked the old man, kindly.
Richards looked at him in scorn. Then he spat on the white deck.
“I’ll go,” said he, and Captain Watkins turned to me.