“All right,” said the mate, angrily, “go your own way, then. Don’t come to me when you get into trouble, that’s all.”
Flower passed on his way in silence. Then a thought struck him and he stopped suddenly.
“You wish to speak to me?” he asked, stiffly.
“No, I’m damned if I do,” said the mate, sticking his hands into his pockets.
“If you wish to speak to me,” said the other, trying in vain to conceal a trace of anxiety in his voice, “it’s my duty to listen. What were you going to say just now?”
The mate eyed him wrathfully, but as the pathetic figure with its wounded toe and cargo of remedies stood there waiting for him to speak, he suddenly softened.
“Don’t go back, old man,” he said, kindly, “she’s aboard.”
Eighteen pennyworth of mixture, to be taken thrice daily from tablespoons, spilled over the curb, and the skipper, thrusting the other packets mechanically into his pockets, disappeared hurriedly around the corner.
“It’s no use finding fault with me,” said Fraser, quickly, as he stepped along beside him, “so don’t try it. They came down into the cabin before I knew they were aboard, even.”
“They?” repeated the distressed Flower. “Who’s they?”