“Well, we’ll see,” said the girl, as she took the wheel, “I think you’ll go at Ipswich.”
For the remainder of the voyage the subject was not alluded to; the mate, in a spirit of sulky pride, kept to the fore part of the boat, except when he was steering, and, as far as practicable, the girl ignored his presence. In this spirit of mutual forbearance they entered the Orwell, and ran swiftly up to Ipswich.
It was late in the afternoon when they arrived there, and the new skipper, waiting only until they were made fast, went ashore, leaving the mate in charge. She had been gone about an hour when a small telegraph boy appeared, and, after boarding the barge in the unsafest manner possible, handed him a telegram. The mate read it and his face flushed. With even more than the curtness customary in language at a halfpenny a word, it contained his dismissal.
“I’ve had a telegram from your father sacking me,” he said to the girl, as she returned soon after, laden with small parcels.
“Yes, I wired him to,” she replied calmly. “I suppose you’ll go now?”
“I’d rather go back to London with you,” he said slowly.
“I daresay,” said the girl. “As a matter of fact I wasn’t really meaning for you to go, but when you said you wouldn’t I thought we’d see who was master. I’ve shipped another mate, so you see I haven’t lost much time.”
“Who is he,” inquired the mate.
“Man named Charlie Lee,” replied the girl; “the foreman here told me of him.”
“He’d no business too,” said the mate, frowning; “he’s a loose fish; take my advice now and ship somebody else. He’s not at all the sort of chap I’d choose for you to sail with.”