“You git it out,” said the skipper, with a knowing toss of his head. “Ah, there we are. Now go in my state-room and take those off.”
The wondering Tommy, who thought that great grief had turned his kinsman’s brain, complied, and emerged shortly afterwards in a blanket, bringing his clothes under his arm.
“Now, do you know what I’m going to do?” inquired the skipper, with a big smile.
“No.”
“Fetch me the scissors, then. Now do you know what I’m going to do?”
“Cut up the two suits and make ’em into one,” hazarded the horror-stricken Tommy. “Here, stop it! Leave off!”
The skipper pushed him impatiently off, and, placing the clothes on the table, took up the scissors, and, with a few slashing strokes, cut them garments into their component parts.
“What am I to wear,” said Tommy, beginning to blubber. “You didn’t think of that?”
“What are you to wear, you selfish young pig?” said the skipper sternly. “Always thinking about yourself. Go and git some needles and thread, and if there’s any left over, and you’re a good boy, I’ll see whether I can’t make something for you out of the leavings.”
“There ain’t no needles here,” whined Tommy, after a lengthened search.