Hawkson left me and went aft. I hesitated a few moments, looking around to see if any one on deck had heard our talk, but there was no one near enough, and those who saw us might have thought the mate was giving me a reprimand for whanging the old steward. Hawkson would be friendly in a rough way, and I did not care for all hands to know it. As I was in Mr. Gull’s watch, I had four hours below before confronting that gentleman, and I might as well take advantage of them, as my head was very painful. Taking one more look over the vessel and beyond where sunlight danced upon the wrinkled blue surface of the ocean, I went to the forecastle hatch and forthwith below. Here I took possession of a bunk which the thoughtful owners had cleaned and painted, and, announcing my claim to the watch who had finished a late breakfast, sat upon its edge and munched a piece of hard bread.
“I see ye whack the old duffer Watkins,” said the fellow Bill. “What’d yer hit him for?”
I told him, and looked at Martin to see if he agreed to my accusations against the old rascal’s honesty. He smoked in silence.
“D’ye know who Watkins is?” asked a big Finn with a long black beard, “because if you don’t, you’re apt to find out too late.”
“Do you know me?” I asked.
The fellow looked surlily at me.
“Because if you fellows down here don’t, some of you will find out all of a sudden.”
I had noticed that they had left the mess things lying about, as if awaiting something, and then I had a grave suspicion that the something was myself, whom they would delegate to clean up after them. It was just as well to take the matter in hand at the beginning, and if there was to be a fracas to see who was to be the boss of that crowd, the earlier the better.
The big Finn gazed at me, but said nothing, and Bill seemed to size me up closely.
“Who and what is that old swab, Watkins?” I asked, suddenly turning upon Bill.