“Bill,” said the mate.
“Sir,” said the polite seaman.
“Help Joe scrub paintwork,” was the reply.
“Me!” broke in the indignant Joe.
“Scrub—Look ’ere, Ben.”
“Pore old Joe,” said the cook, who had not forgiven him for the previous night’s affair. “Pore old Joe.”
“Don’t stand gaping about,” commanded the new mate. “Liven up there.”
“It don’t want cleaning. I won’t do it,” said Joe, fiercely.
“I’ve give my orders,” said the new mate, severely; “if they ain’t attended to, or if I ’ear any more about not doing ’em, you’ll hear of it. The idea o’ telling me you won’t do it. The idea o’ setting such an example to the young ’uns. The idea—Wot are you making that face for?”
“I’ve got the earache,” retorted Joe, with bitter sarcasm.