“You’ll have biskit an’ water,” said the cook icily, as they moved off, “an’ nothing else, I’ll take care.”
“They must be uncommon fond o’ me,” said the skipper meditatively.
“Uncommon fond o’ having their own way,” growled the mate. “Nice thing you’ve let yourself in for.”
“I know what I’m about,” was the confident reply.
“You ain’t going to let them idiots fast for a week an’ then break your word?” said the mate in surprise.
“Certainly not,” said the other wrathfully; “I’d sooner jine three armies than do that, and you know it.”
“They’ll keep to the grub, don’t you fear,” said the mate. “I can’t understand how you are going to manage it.”
“That’s where the brains come in,” retorted the skipper, somewhat arrogantly.
“Fust time I’ve heard of ’em,” murmured the mate softly; “but I s’pose you’ve been using pint pots too.”
The skipper glared at him scornfully, but, being unprovided with a retort, forbore to reply, and going below again mixed himself a stiff glass of grog, and drank success to his scheme.