“Don’t take no notice of ’im,” said the mate. “’E’s got a bottle of brandy down there, an’ he’s ’alf mad.”
“If I knew anything o’ them blessed engines,” growled the skipper, “I’d go and hit ’im over the head.”
“But you don’t,” said the mate, “and neither do I, so you’d better keep quiet.”
“You think you’re a fine feller,” continued the engineer, “standing up there an’ playing with that little wheel. You think you’re doing all the work. What’s the boy doing? Send him down to stoke.”
“Go down,” said the skipper, grinning with fury, and the boy reluctantly obeyed.
“You think,” said the engineer pathetically, after he had cuffed the boy’s head and dropped him down below by the scruff of his neck, “you think because I’ve got a black face I’m not a man. There’s many a hoily face ’ides a good ’art.”
“I don’t think nothing about it,” grunted the skipper; “you do your work, and I’ll do mine.”
“Don’t you give me none of your back answers,” bellowed the engineer, “’cos I won’t have ’em.”
The skipper shrugged his shoulders and exchanged glances with his sympathetic mate. “Wait till I get ’im ashore,” he murmured.
“The biler is wore out,” said the engineer, re-appearing after a hasty dive below. “It may bust at any moment.”