For sole answer the indignant Sam threw a piece at him, and the rest of the crew, snatching up their dinners, hurriedly clambered into their bunks and viewed the fray from a safe distance.
“Have you ’ad enough?” inquired the “Bruiser,” addressing the head of Sam, which protruded from beneath his left arm.
“I ’ave,” said Sam surlily.
“And you won’t turn up your nose at good vittles any more?” inquired the “Bruiser” severely.
“I won’t turn it up at anything,” said Sam earnestly, as he tenderly felt the member in question.
“You’re the only one as ’as complained,” said the “Bruiser.” “You’re dainty, that’s wot you are. Look at the others—look how they’re eating theirs!”
At this hint the others came out of their bunks and fell to, and the “Bruiser” became affable.
“It’s wonderful wot I can turn my ’and to,” he remarked pleasantly. “Things come natural to me that other men have to learn. You’d better put a bit of raw beef on that eye o’ yours, Sam.”
The thoughtless Sam clapped on a piece from his plate, and it was only by the active intercession of the rest of the crew that the sensitive cook was prevented from inflicting more punishment.
From this time forth the “Bruiser” ruled the roost, and, his temper soured by his trials, ruled it with a rod of iron. The crew, with the exception of Dowse, were small men getting into years, and quite unable to cope with him. His attitude with the skipper was dangerously deferential, and the latter was sorely perplexed to think of a way out of the mess in which he found himself.