“I thought p’r’aps you’d like to lead the way,” said Mr. Jones, mildly.
“You thought wrong, then,” said the cook, shortly.
“It was jist a compliment,” urged Mr. Jones.
“I don’t like flattery,” said the cook; “never did.”
Mr. Jones sighed and shook his head irresolutely. The other A.B. patted him on the back.
“You look a fair bloomin’ treat,” he said, heartily. “You go up fust; you look as though you’ve slep’ in one a’most.”
“None o’ your larks, you know,” remarked Mr. Jones, with suspicious sourness; “no backing out of it and leavin’ me there by myself.”
There was a chorus of virtuous but profane indignation. It was so indignant that Mr. Jones apologised, and stood for some time regarding the article in his hand with the face of a small child eyeing a large powder. Then he clapped it on his head and went on deck.
The mate was just talking to the fisherman about an uncle of his (born since his promotion) who had commanded a brig, when his voice failed him, and he gazed open-mouthed at a stout seaman who had just come up on deck. On the stout seaman’s face was the look of one who sees a vision many miles off; on the stout seaman’s head was a high hat of antique pattern which had suffered in the brushing. To avoid the mate’s eye he folded his arms and, leaning over the side, gazed across the river. Words trembled on the mate’s lips, but they died away in a squeak as a little top-hatted procession of three issued coyly from the forecastle and, ranging itself beside Mr. Jones, helped him to look across the river.
“I never did,” said the fisherman. “What are we a-coming to?”