"Now I know what Brose feels," said Ware. "I've a great sympathy for poor Brose."
The owner ordered a tot for all hands when they came down from aloft. And he called the cook aft and harangued him from the break of the poop.
"Now, Mr. Spoil-Grub, mind you cook better than you've been doin', or I'll have you ducked in a tub and set your mate to do your work."
He turned to the skipper with a beaming smile in his blue eyes.
"I can talk straight, can't I, cap?" he hiccoughed, blandly. "I'm thinkin' I'll lie down in the cabin."
And when the old man went below he found Geordie dossing in his own sacred bunk. The poor old chap went and sat in the cabin and put his head on his hands.
"This is a most horrid experience," he said, mournfully. "I don't like howners on board—I don't like 'em a bit."
But it was not only the after-guard who suffered. Geordie shifted his dunnage aft at last, and though when he was sober he left the skipper's berth, he made himself very comfortable in the steward's. And he loafed about all day on deck with his pipe in his mouth. He began to look at the men with alien eyes.
"I tell you they're loafin'," said he to Ware. "Don't I know 'em? They watches you like cats, and when your eyes are off 'em they do nothin'. I'm payin' 'em to work and I'm payin' you to make 'em. There's a leak somewhere."
And he addressed the crowd from the poop.