“I ’ad money,” continued Mr. Green, musingly, “and I run through it; then I ’ad more money, and I run through that.”
“Ben,” said Joe, suddenly, “pass me over that boot o’ yours.”
“Wha’ for?” enquired Ben, who had just taken it off.
“To chuck at that swab there,” said the indignant seaman.
Ben passed it over without a word, and his irritated friend, taking careful aim, launched it at Mr. Green and caught him on the side of the head with it. Pain standing the latter in lieu of courage, he snatched it up and returned it, and the next moment the whole forecastle was punching somebody else’s head, while Tim, in a state of fearful joy, peered down on it from his bunk.
Victory, rendered cheap and easy by reason of the purblindness of the frantic cook, who was trying to persuade Mr. Green to raise his face from the floor so that he could punch it for him, remained with Joe and Ben, who, in reply to the angry shouts of the skipper from above, pointed silently to the combatants. Explanations, all different and all ready to be sworn to if desired, ensued, and Fraser, after curtly reminding Ben of his new position and requesting him to keep order, walked away.
A silence broken only by the general compliments of the much gratified Tim, followed his departure, although another outbreak nearly occurred owing to the cook supplying raw meat for Mr. Green’s eye and refusing it for Joe’s. It was the lack of consideration and feeling that affected Joe, not for the want of the beef, that little difficulty being easily surmounted by taking Mr. Green’s. The tumult was just beginning again, when it was arrested by the sound of angry voices above. Tim, followed by Joe, sprang up the ladder, and the couple with their heads at the opening listened with appreciative enjoyment to a wordy duel between Mrs. Tipping and daughter and the watchman.
“Call me a liar, then,” said old George, in bereaved accents.
“I have,” said Mrs. Tipping.
“Only you’re so used to it you don’t notice it,” remarked her daughter, scathingly.