Keeney. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Behring Sea at the end of a rope.
The Steward [trembling]. Yes, sir.
[He hurries out. The Second Mate walks slowly over to the Captain.]
Mate. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.
Keeney [impatiently]. Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.
Mate [unconsciously lowering his voice]. I'm afeared there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to-day.
Keeney. And d'you think you're tellin' me something new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?
[The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman, primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her.]
Keeney [with rough tenderness]. Well, Annie?
Mrs. Keeney [as if awakening from a dream]. David, I—