“Yes, I’ve got one, but he’s only signed as far as Fairhaven,” replied the mate. “Fine strong chap he is. He’s too good for a cook. I never saw a better built man in my life. It’ll do your eyes good to look at him. Here, cook!”
At the summons a huge, close-cropped head was thrust out of the galley, and a man of beautiful muscular development stepped out before the eyes of the paralyzed skipper, and began to remove his coat.
“Ain’t he a fine chap?” said the mate admiringly. “Show him your biceps, cook.”
With a leer at the captain the cook complied. He then doubled his fists, and, ducking his head scientifically, danced all round the stupefied master of the Frolic.
“Put your dooks up,” he cried warningly. “I’m going to dot you!”
“What the deuce are you up to, cook?” demanded the mate, who had been watching his proceedings in speechless amazement.
“Cook!” said the person addressed, with majestic scorn. “I’m no cook; I’m Bill Simmons, the ‘Battersea Bruiser,’ an’ I shipped on this ere little tub all for your dear captin’s sake. I’m going to put sich a ’ed on ’im that when he wants to blow his nose he’ll have to get a looking-glass to see where to go to. I’m going to give ’im a licking every day, and when we get to Fairhaven I’m going to foller ’im ’ome and tell his wife about ’im walking out with my sister.”
“She walked me out,” said the skipper, with dry lips.
“Put ’em up,” vociferated the “Bruiser.”
“Don’t you touch me, my lad,” said the skipper, dodging behind the wheel. “Go an’ see about your work—go an’ peel the taters.”