“Tenth-rate!” roared the “Bruiser,” coming out on to the deck.
“Don’t you roar at your officer,” said the mate sternly. “Your manners is worse than your cooking. You’d better stay with us a few trips to improve ’em.”
The “Bruiser” turned purple, and shivered with impotent wrath.
“We get a parcel o’ pot-house loafers aboard here,” continued the mate, airily addressing the atmosphere, “and, blank my eyes! if they don’t think they’re here to be waited on. You’ll want me to wash your face for you next, and do all your other dirty work, you—”
“George!” said a sad, reproving voice.
The mate started dramatically as the skipper appeared at the companion, and stopped abruptly.
“For shame, George!” said the skipper. “I never expected to hear you talk to anybody like that, especially to my friend Mr. Simmons.”
“Your wot? demanded the friend hotly.
“My friend,” repeated the other gently; “and as to tenth-rate prize-fighters, George, the ‘Battersea Bruiser’ might be champion of England, if he’d only take the trouble to train.”
“Oh, you’re always sticking up for him,” said the artful mate.