Three days passed, and the men stood firm, and, realising that they were slowly undermining the skipper’s convictions, made no effort to carry him by direct assault. The mate made no attempt to conceal his opinion of his superior’s peril, and in gloomy terms strove to put the full horror of his position before him.
“What your missis’ll say the first time she sees you prancing up an’ down the road tapping a tambourine, I can’t think,” said he.
“I shan’t have no tambourine,” said Captain Bowers cheerfully.
“It’ll also be your painful dooty to stand outside your father-in-law’s pub and try and persuade customers not to go in,” continued Bob. “Nice thing that for a quiet family!”
The skipper smiled knowingly, and, rolling a cigar in his mouth, leaned back in his seat and cocked his eye at the skylight.
“Don’t you worry, my lad,” said he; “don’t you worry. I’m in this job, an’ I’m coming out on top. When men forget what’s due to their betters, and preach to ’em, they’ve got to be taught what’s what. If the wind keeps fair we ought to be home by Sunday night or Monday morning.”
The other nodded.
“Now, you keep your eyes open,” said the skipper; and, going to his state-room, he returned with three bottles of rum and a corkscrew, all of which, with an air of great mystery, he placed on the table, and then smiled at the mate. The mate smiled too.
“What’s this?” inquired the skipper, drawing the cork, and holding a bottle under the other’s nose.
“It smells like rum,” said the mate, glancing round, possibly for a glass.