“Wot!” roared the “Bruiser.”
“You’ve shipped as cook aboard my craft,” said the skipper impressively. “If you lay a finger on me it’s mutiny, and you’ll get twelve months.”
“That’s right,” said the mate, as the pugilist (who had once had fourteen days for bruising, and still held it in wholesome remembrance) paused irresolute. “It’s mutiny, and it’ll also be my painful duty to get up the shotgun and blow the top of your ugly ’ed off.”
“Would it be mutiny if I was to dot you one?” inquired the “Bruiser,” in a voice husky with emotion, as he sidled up to the mate.
“It would,” said the other hastily.
“Well, you’re a nice lot,” said the disgusted “Bruiser,” “you and your mutinies. Will any one of you have a go at me?”
There was no response from the crew, who had gathered round, and were watching the proceedings with keen enjoyment.
“Or all of yer?” asked the “Bruiser,” raising his eyebrows.
“I’ve got no quarrel with you, my lad,” the boy remarked with dignity, as he caught the new cook’s eye.
“Go and cook the dinner,’” said the skipper; “and look sharp about it. I don’t want to have to find fault with a young beginner like you; but I don’t have no shirkers aboard—understand that.”