“How in the name of thunder can ye turn to a hundred and twenty men in irons,” answered the old mate, with a grin. “Turn them out in small gangs, man. Poor devils they be, sure enough, but they get plenty of exercise atween decks when the old hooker gets a-switching into it, when it comes on to blow. Besides, those ports you see painted on her sides there are not all make-believe. Some of them will open and let in the air, when the hatches make it too close. I’ve been in worse places than that ’tween decks on that ship, and I never was a convict, either.”
“I’ve heard tell that law and justice were two things av an ontirely different nature,” grunted O’Toole, without removing his gaze from the convict ship.
“S’help me, ’tis a fact,” chuckled Garnett, “and I onct heard a skipper say that he had onct met a man who was a bigger fool than Larry O’Toole,—but he couldn’t call to mind exactly who the fellow was.”
While the mates were chaffing each other, an uproar arose from the after cabin.
I could distinguish Crojack’s hoarse voice, raised to a pitch that I knew meant danger to some one. The cabin skylight was open, and the voices of both skippers seemed to come from just beneath it.
“D’ye mean to say that England owns the whole Western Ocean?” roared the old man.
“Up to within three miles of any beach whatever,” cried the little Englishman. “But don’t bellow at me, sir; I’m not deaf, and I won’t allow any one to bellow at me, sir.”
“Well, by gorry! England don’t,” roared Crojack.
“I decline to argue the case any further with you, sir,” replied the small skipper, “but I’ll head my course just the same. You have a most uncommon voice, sir, also most extraordinary good grog. So fill my glass and don’t sit there bellowing at me, sir. Nothing aggravates me more than a man bellowing at me. Don’t do it, I say, or I’ll go—”
“You may go to hell!” roared Crojack.