“You can’t do it,” said the mate firmly.
“Can’t do it?” queried the skipper.
“Not a bit of it,” said the other. “They’ve all got it bad, an’ the more you get at ’em the wuss they’ll be. Mark my words, best let ’em alone.”
“I’ll hold my hand a bit and watch ’em,” was the reply; “but I’ve always been cap’n on my own ship, and I always will.”
For the next twenty-four hours he retained his sovereignty undisputed, but on Sunday morning, after breakfast, when he was at the wheel, and the crew below, the mate, who had been forward, came aft with a strange grin struggling for development at the corners of his mouth.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper, regarding him with some disfavour.
“They’re all down below with their red jerseys on,” replied the mate, still struggling, “and they’re holding a sort o’ consultation about the lost lamb, an’ the best way o’ reaching ’is ’ard ’eart.”
“Lost lamb!” repeated the skipper unconcernedly, but carefully avoiding the other’s eye.
“You’re the lost lamb,” said the mate, who always went straight to the point.
“I won’t have it,” said the skipper excitably. “How dare they go on in this way? Go and send ’em up directly.”