“It’s no good wasting time over him,” said Miss Evans, after another vain appeal to the skipper’s manhood. “He’s escaped. Get some more stuff on your mops.”
The mate, who had been laughing boisterously, checked himself suddenly, and assumed a gravity of demeanour more in accordance with his position. The mops were dipped in solemn silence, and Miss Evans approaching regarded him significantly.
“Now, my dears,” said the mate, waving his hand with a deprecating gesture, “don’t be silly.”
“Don’t be what?” inquired the sensitive Miss Evans raising her mop.
“You know what I mean,” said the mate hastily. “I can’t help myself.”
“Well, we’re going to help you,” said Miss Evans. “Turn the ship round.”
“You obey orders, Jack,” cried the skipper from aloft.
“It’s all very well for you sitting up there in peace and comfort,” said the mate indignantly. “I’m not going to be tarred to please you. Come down and take charge of your ship.”
“Do your duty, Jack,” said the skipper, who was polishing his face with a handkerchief. “They won’t touch you. They daren’t. They’re afraid to.”
“You’re egging ’em on,” cried the mate wrath-fully. “I won’t steer; come and take it yourself.”