The mate laid on one good whang, when he was interrupted by the remark, “Soak it to him; don’t mind me, I’ll get used to hearing him pipe.” And the pretty girl smiled pleasantly.
“Ye had better go below, missie, for there’s a-going to be a little hee-hawing for’ards. Come back again soon,” said Garnett, with a leer.
“Not exactly, while the fun lasts,” answered Miss Carrie.
But, somehow, the mate could not curse loud enough to keep his temper up before the young girl, and he ended matters by giving Bill a kick that sent him to leeward, where he landed in the mess-kit. Then the mate touched his forelock to Miss Carrie and went forward muttering something about there being no discipline aboard a boat with wimmen folks around. Garnett balanced himself upon his short bow-legs to the heave of the ship, which was now well off shore, and took his cap in his hand while he mopped a deep, greasy dent in the top of his bald head. Then he took out a vial of peppermint salts and sniffed loudly at it, looking out of the clew of his eye at the stewardess. “Holy smoke an’ blazes, but she’s a craft to sail with! To think of a tender-hearted young gurl like that wanting to see a man whanged.” And he went forward like a man in a dream.
Each time during the following days when the oaths flew thick and fast from poop or forecastle, Miss Carrie appeared upon the scene and cheered on the contestants. It was simply uncanny to see the fresh young girl telling the skipper or mates to “go ahead and cuss them out,” or “don’t mind me, boys, I’ll get used to it.” They could not go on while the young girl stood by. Once Enlis continued to use foul language before her, but two or three groans and hisses made his face flush for the very shame of it. He threatened to kill every man who uttered a sound, and seized a belaying-pin to carry out his design, but a laugh from the galley door drove him into a frenzy, and he sent the pin flying at the girl’s head. He was instantly reported to the skipper for his brutal conduct and had the satisfaction of being knocked down by that truculent commander, barely escaping forward with his life.
“He’s a real captain,” said Miss Carrie to the O’Haras, whenever she thought the skipper was in his state-room and could hear. She was a very pretty girl, and what she said was seldom lost entirely.
Day after day life grew quieter on board the Northern Light. There was no help for it. And while life grew quieter, so likewise did Jimmy Breeze, the skipper. He was just “losing his tone,” as Mr. McCloud expressed it. He sometimes burst forth at odd moments, but the presence of his stewardess usually ended the flare into deep mutterings.
One morning he came on the poop and joined his passengers.
“There’s no use denyin’ it,” he said, “cussin’s wrong, and that young gurl shan’t be exposed to it no more. She’s a-tryin’ not to mind the rough words; but, sink me, any one can tell how they effects her, young and innercent as she is. Things is goin’ much better this v’yage, and blast me if I allows any d—d swab to shoot off his bazoo in my hearing. No, sir; if there’s any cussin’ to be done, I’ll do it. Yes, sir, I’ll do it; and I’ll whang the lights out of any d—d junk-eating son of a sea-cook aboard here I catches,—an’ I don’t make no exceptions for passengers.”
Here he glared at Mr. O’Hara, but that gentleman appeared absorbed in the weather-leach of the main-top-sail.