“He means business, George,” he said one day to the mate, as he saw the “Bruiser” watching him intently from the galley.
“He looks at you worse an’ worse,” was the mate’s cheering reply. “The cooking’s spoiling what little temper he’s got left as fast as possible.”
“It’s the scandal I’m thinking of,” groaned the skipper; “all becos’ I like to be a bit pleasant to people.”
“You mustn’t look at the black side o’ things,” said the mate; “perhaps you won’t want to need to worry about that after he’s hit you. I’d sooner be kicked by a horse myself. He was telling them down for’ard the other night that he killed a chap once.”
The skipper turned green. “He ought to have been hung for it,” he said vehemently. “I wonder what juries think they’re for in this country. If I’d been on the jury I’d ha’ had my way, if they’d starved me for a month!”
“Look here!” said the mate suddenly; “I’ve got an idea. You go down below and I’ll call him up and start rating him. When I’m in the thick of it you come and stick up for him.”
“George,” said the skipper, with glistening eyes, “you’re a wonder. Lay it on thick, and if he hits you I’ll make it up to you in some way.”
He went below, and the mate, after waiting for some time, leaned over the wheel and shouted for the cook.
“What do you want?” growled the “Bruiser,” as he thrust a visage all red and streaky with his work from the galley.
“Why the devil don’t you wash them saucepans up?” demanded the mate, pointing to a row which stood on the deck. “Do you think we shipped you becos we wanted a broken-nosed, tenth-rate prize-fighter to look at?”