“There’s just one thing,” said the mate presently; “won’t the rum affect the cooking a good deal?”
“I never thought o’ that,” admitted the skipper; “still, we musn’t expect to have everything our own way.”
“No, no,” said the mate blankly, admiring the other’s choice of pronouns.
Up to Friday afternoon the skipper went about with a smile of kindly satisfaction on his face; but in the evening it weakened somewhat, and by Saturday morning it had vanished altogether, and was replaced by an expression of blank amazement and anxiety, for the crew shunned the water cask as though it were poison, without appearing to suffer the slightest inconvenience. A visible air of proprietorship appeared on their faces whenever they looked at the skipper, and the now frightened man inveighed fiercely to the mate against the improper methods of conversion patronised by some religious bodies, and the aggravating obstinacy of some of their followers.
“It’s wonderful what enthusiasm’ll do for a man,” said Bob reflectively; “I knew a man once—”
“I don’t want none o’ your lies,” interposed the other rudely.
“An’ I don’t want your blamed rum and water, if it comes to that,” said the mate, firing up. “When a man’s tea is made with rum, an’ his beef is biled in it, he begins to wonder whether he’s shipped with a seaman or a—a—”
“A what?” shouted the skipper. “Say it!”
“I can’t think o’ nothing foolish enough,” was the frank reply. “It’s all right for you, becos it’s the last licker as you’ll be allowed to taste, but it’s rough on me and the cook.”
“Damn you an’ the cook,” said the skipper, and went on deck to see whether the men’s tongues were hanging out.