“And what about me?” said Bradd.
“You’re the mate,” said Zingall, “and mind, for your own sake, you act up to it. If you don’t cross him I haven’t any doubt it’ll be all right, but if you do he’ll very likely murder you in a fit of frenzy, and—he wouldn’t be responsible. Goodnight.”
“You’re not going?” said Bradd, clutching him by the sleeve.
“I am,” said the other. “He seems to have took a violent dislike to me, and if I stay here it’ll only make him worse.”
He ran lightly up on deck, and avoiding an ugly rush on the part of the mate, who had been listening, sprang on to the ladder and hastily clambered ashore.
The skipper, worn and scared, looked up as the bogus skipper came below.
“I’m going to bed, George,” said the mate, staring at him. “I feel a bit heavy. Give me a call just afore high water.”
“Where are you goin’ to sleep?” demanded the skipper.
“Goin’ to sleep?” said the mate, “why, in my state-room, to be sure.”
He took the empty bottle from the table, and opening the door of the state-room, closed it in the face of its frenzied owner, and turned the key in the lock. Then he leaned over the berth, and, cramming the pillow against his mouth, gave way to his feelings until he was nearly suffocated.