The new cook, being somewhat fatigued with her journey, withdrew at an early hour, and the sun was well up when she appeared on deck next morning. The wharves and warehouses of the night before had disappeared, and the schooner, under a fine spread of canvas, was just passing Tilbury.
“There’s one thing I must put a stop to,” said the skipper, as he and the mate, after an admirably-cooked breakfast, stood together talking. “The men seem to be hanging round that galley too much.”
“What can you expect?” demanded the mate. “They’ve all got their Sunday clothes on too, pretty dears.”
“Hi, you Bill!” cried the skipper. “What are you doing there?”
“Lending cook a hand with the saucepans, sir,” said Bill, an oakum-bearded man of sixty.
“There ain’t no call for ’im to come ’ere at all, sir,” shouted another seaman, putting his head out of the galley. “Me an’ cook’s lifting ’em beautiful.”
“Come out, both of you, or I’ll start you with a rope!” roared the irritated commander.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Mrs. Blossom. “They’re not doing any harm.”
“I can’t have ’em there,” said the skipper gruffly. “They’ve got other things to do.”
“I must have some assistance with that boiler and the saucepans,” said Mrs. Blossom decidedly, “so don’t you interfere with what don’t concern you, Jimmy.”