“An’ hope as ye will not be always be sich,” interrupted O’Hara.
Jimmy Breeze sat silent and sullen upon his safe, glaring at his passengers over the rim of his mug each time he raised it to his lips. At the end of the sixth measure he dashed the mug upon the deck and swore loudly for nearly a minute, and his guests were wondering what had happened.
“I’ll not be any d—d sich any longer!” he roared. “I’ve stood it long enough, s’help me.”
O’Hara put down his mug and edged towards the cabin door, and McCloud was in the act of following his example when Breeze sprang forward and locked it, putting the key in his pocket.
“Sit down, you swabs, and give me your advice. You can’t leave here till you do; so take your time and lay me a straight course.”
“What’s—what’s the matter?” gasped O’Hara.
The skipper seated himself on top of his safe.
“It’s like this,” he said. “Here I’m bound for the West Coast in cargo and passengers, likely to be at sea four months or more, and here I am bound to get married even if I have to run the bleeding hooker clear back to Rio to have it done.”
“Whew!” said McCloud.
“Whew!” said O’Hara.