“How long shall we be getting back to London, do you think?” inquired Mrs. Blossom at last.
“We shall probably sail Tuesday night, and it may be anything from six days upwards,” answered the skipper. “If this wind holds it’ll probably be upwards.”
To his great concern Mrs. Blossom put her handkerchief over her face, and, shaking with suppressed laughter, rose from the table and left the cabin.
The couple left eyed each other wonderingly.
“Did I say anything pertickler funny, George?” inquired the skipper, after some deliberation.
“Didn’t strike me so,” said the mate carelessly; “I expect she’s thought o’ something else to say about your family. She wouldn’t be so good-tempered as all that for nothing. I feel cur’ous to know what it is.”
“If you paid more attention to your own business,” said the skipper, his choler rising, “you’d get on better. A mate who was a good seaman wouldn’t ha’ let a cook go on like this—it’s not discipline.”
He went off in dudgeon, and a coolness sprang up between them, which lasted until the bustle of starting in the small hours of Wednesday morning.
Once under way the day passed uneventfully, the schooner crawling sluggishly down the coast of Wales, and, when the skipper turned in that night, it was with the pleasant conviction that Mrs. Blossom had shot her last bolt, and, like a sensible woman, was going to accept her defeat. From this pleasing idea he was aroused suddenly by the watch stamping heavily on the deck overhead.
“What’s up?” cried the skipper, darting up the companion-ladder, jostled by the mate.