“Hullo, old ’un,” said George, cheerfully, “I thought you was asleep.”
“You thought wrong, then,” said the mate, sourly; “don’t you do that ag’in.”
“Why, did I ’urt you?” said the other, surprised at his tone.
“Next time you want to chuck coal at anybody,” continued Ben, with dignity, “pick out one o’ the ’ands; mates don’t like ’aving coal chucked at ’em by watchmen.”
“Look who we are,” gasped the petrified George. “Look who we are,” he repeated, helplessly. “Look who we are.”
“Keep your place, watchman,” said the mate, severely; “keep your place, and I’ll keep mine.”
The watchman regarded him for some time in genuine astonishment, and then, taking his old seat on the post, thrust his hands in his pockets, and gave utterance to this shocking heresy, “Mates ain’t nothing.”
“You mind your business, watchman,” said the nettled Ben, “and I’ll mind mine.”
“You don’t know it,” retorted the other, breathing heavily; “be—sides, you don’t look like a mate. I wouldn’t chuck coal at a real mate.”
He said no more, but sat gazing idly up and down the river with a face from which all expression had been banished, except when at intervals his gaze rested upon the mate, when it lit up with an expression of wonder and joy which made the muscles ache with the exercise.