“I never said such a thing, cap’n,” said Bradd, in an agitated whisper. “I never thought o’ such a thing.”
“No, I know you wouldn’t,” said Zingall, who was staring hard at a nearly empty whisky bottle on the table.
“And don’t leave your baccy pouch lying about, George,” continued the mate, in a thrilling whisper.
The skipper gave a faint, mirthless little laugh, and looked at him uneasily.
“If ever there was a sponger for baccy, George, it’s him,” said the mate, in a confidential whisper.
Captain Zingall, who was at that very moment filling his pipe from the pouch which the skipper had himself pushed towards him, laid it carefully on the table again, and gazing steadily at his friend, took out the tobacco already in his pipe and replaced it. In the silence which ensued the mate took up the whisky bottle, and pouring the contents into a tumbler, added a little water, and drank it with relish.
He leaned back on the locker and smacked his lips. There was a faint laugh from one of the crew, and looking up smartly he seemed to be aware for the first time of their presence. “What are you doin’ down here?” he roared. “What do you want?”
“Nothin’, sir,” said the cook. “Only we thought—”
“Get out at once,” vociferated the mate, rising.
“Stay where you are,” said the skipper, sharply.