“George!” said the mate, in the squeaky voice in which he chose to personate the skipper.
“Bring him round, Zingall,” said the skipper, irritably. “I’ve had enough o’ this. I’ll let ’im know who’s who.”
With a confident smile Zingall got up quietly from the locker, and fixed his terrible gaze on the mate. The mate fell back and gazed at him open-mouthed.
“Who the devil are you staring at?” he demanded, rudely.
Still holding him with his gaze, Zingall clapped his hands together, and stepping up to him blew strongly in his face. The mate, with a perfect scream of rage, picked him up by the middle, and dumping him heavily on the floor, held him there and worried him.
“Help!” cried Zingall, in a smothered voice; “take him off!”
“Why don’t you bring him round?” yelled the skipper, excitably. “What’s the good of playing with him?”
Zingall’s reply, which was quite irrelevant, consisted almost entirely of adjectives and improper nouns.
“Blow in ’is face agin, sir,” said the cook, bending down kindly.
“Take him off!” yelled Zingall; “he’s killing me!”