The secret society discussed the matter for some time in vain. The difficulty was not so much in inventing modes of retaliation as in finding some bold spirit to carry them out. In vain did the president allot tasks to his admiring followers, preceded by excellent reasons why he should not perform them himself. The only one who showed any spirit at all was Tim, and he, being ordered to spill a little tar carelessly from aloft, paid so much attention to the adverb that Joe half killed him when he came down again.
Then Mr. William Green, having learnt that the mate was unable to read, did wonders with a piece of chalk and the frying pan, which he hung barometer fashion outside the galley when the skipper was below, the laughter of the delighted crew bearing witness to the success of his efforts, laughter which became almost uncontrollable as the mate, with as stately an air as he could assume, strode towards the galley and brought up in front of the frying-pan.
“Wot’s all that, cook?” he demanded, pointing to the writing.
“Wot, sir?” asked the innocent.
“On the frying-pan,” replied Ben, scowling.
“That’s chalk-marks,” explained the cook, “to clean it with.”
“It looks to me like writing,” snapped the mate.
“Lor, no, sir,” said the cook, with a superior smile.
“I say it does,” said Ben, stamping.
“Well, o’ course you know best, sir,” said the cook, humbly. “I ain’t nothing of a scholard myself. If it’s writing, wot does it say, please?”