For one moment of terrible suspense the skipper’s life hung in the balance, then the “Bruiser,” restraining his natural instincts by a mighty effort, retreated, growling, to the galley.
The skipper’s breath came more freely.
“He don’t know your address, I s’pose,” said the mate.
“No, but he’ll soon find it out when we get ashore,” replied the other dolefully. “When I think that I’ve got to take that brute to my home to make mischief I feel tempted to chuck him overboard almost.”
“It is a temptation,” agreed the mate loyally, closing his eyes to his chief’s physical deficiencies. “I’ll pass the word to the crew not to let him know your address, anyhow.”
The morning passed quietly, the skipper striving to look unconcerned as the new cook grimly brought the dinner down to the cabin and set it before him. After toying with it a little while, the master of the Frolic dined off buttered biscuit.
It was a matter of much discomfort to the crew that the new cook took his duties very seriously, and prided himself on his cooking. He was, moreover, disposed to be inconveniently punctilious about the way in which his efforts were regarded. For the first day the crew ate in silence, but at dinner-time on the second the storm broke.
“What are yer looking at your vittles like that for?” inquired the “Bruiser” of Sam Dowse, as that able-bodied seaman sat with his plate in his lap, eyeing it with much disfavour. “That ain’t the way to look at your food, after I’ve been perspiring away all the morning cooking it.”
“Yes, you’ve cooked yourself instead of the meat,” said Sam warmly. “It’s a shame to spoil good food like that; it’s quite raw.”
“You eat it!” said the “Bruiser” fiercely; “that’s wot you’ve go to do. Eat it!”