“Anyway, the men reckernise it,” said the mate loftily. “They don’t go an’ sit in their red jerseys an’ hold mothers’ meetings over me.”
“I’ll knock their blessed heads off!” growled the skipper. “I’ll learn ’em to insult me!”
“It’s all for your own good,” said the other. “They mean it kindly. Well, I wish ’em luck.”
With these hardy words he retired, leaving a seething volcano to pace the deck, and think over ways and means of once more reducing his crew to what he considered a fit and proper state of obedience and respect.
The climax was reached at tea-time, when an anonymous hand was thrust beneath the skylight, and a full-bodied tract fluttered wildly down and upset his tea.
“That’s the last straw!” he roared, fishing out the tract and throwing it on the floor. “I’ll read them chaps a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry, and put a little money in my pocket at the same time. I’ve got a little plan in my ’ed as come to me quite sudden this afternoon. Come on deck, Bob.”
Bob obeyed, grinning, and the skipper, taking the wheel from Sam, sent him for the others.
“Did you ever know me break my word, Dick?” he inquired abruptly, as they shuffled up.
“Never,” said Dick.
“Cap’n Bowers’ word is better than another man’s oath,” asseverated Joe.