“We don’t want no misters ’ere,” he said, curtly, “an’ wot’s more, we won’t ’ave ’em. That chap’s name’s Bob, but we calls ’im Slushy. If it’s good enough for us, it’s good enough for a ordinary seaman wot’s got an A. B. discharge by mistake. Let me ’ear you call ’im Slushy. Go on now.”
“I’ve no call to address ’im at all just now,” said Mr. Green, loftily.
“You call ’im Slushy,” roared Joe, advancing upon him; “call ’im Slushy till I tell you to stop.”
“Slushy,” said Mr. Green, sullenly, and avoiding the pained gaze of the cook; “Slushy, Slushy, Slushy, Slushy, Sl——”
“That’ll do,” said the cook, rising, with a scowl. “You don’t want to make a song abart it.”
Joe, content with his victory, resumed his seat on the locker and exchanged a reassuring glance with Ben; Mr. Green, with a deprecatory glance at the cook, sat down and offered him a pipe of tobacco.
“Been to sea long?” enquired the cook, accepting it
“Not long,” said the other, speaking very distinctly.
“I was brought up for something quite different. I’m just doing this till something better turns up. I find it very difficult to be a gentleman at sea.”
The cook, with an eye on Joe, ventured on a gentle murmur of sympathy, and said that he had experienced the same thing.