“One what the biscuit and onions kep’ in?” inquired George.
The skipper nodded.
“I think, if it’s all the same to you,” said the mate, with laboured politeness, “I’ll wait till the butter keg’s empty, and crowd into that.”
“It’s no use your making yourself unpleasant about it,” said the skipper, “not a bit. The arrangements are made now, and here she comes.”
Following his gaze, the mate looked up as a stout, comely-looking woman of middle age came along the jetty, followed by the watchman staggering under a box of enormous proportions.
“Jim!” cried the lady.
“Halloa!” cried the skipper, starting uneasily at the title. “We’ve been expecting you for some time.”
“There’s a row on with the cabman,” said the lady calmly. “This silly old man”—the watchman snorted fiercely—“let the box go through the window getting it off the top, and the cabman wants me to pay. He’s out there using language, and he keeps calling me grandma—I want you to have him locked up.”
“Come down below now,” said the skipper; “we’ll see about the cab. Mrs. Blossom—my mate. George, go and send that cab away.”
Mrs. Blossom, briefly acknowledging the introduction, followed the skipper to the cabin, while the mate, growling under his breath, went out to enter into a verbal contest in which he was from the first hopelessly overmatched.