“Not exactly words,” replied the mate. “What you might call snacks.”
“I know,” said the other with a groan.
“If you don’t now,” said the mate, “you will at tea time. I’m not going to sit down there with them again alone. You needn’t think it. If you was to ask me what I’ve been eating I couldn’t tell you.”
He moved off a bit as his table companions came up on deck, and the master of the Foam deciding to take the bull by the horns, called both of them to him, and pointed out the beauties of the various passing craft. In the midst of his dis-course his wife moved off, leaving the unhappy man conversing alone with Mrs. Fillson, her face containing an expression such as is seen in the prints of the very best of martyrs as she watched them.
At tea time the men sat in misery, Mrs. Bunnett passed Mrs. Fillson her tea without looking at her, an example which Mrs. Fillson followed in handing her the cut bread and butter. When she took the plate back it was empty, and Mrs. Bunnett, convulsed with rage, was picking the slices out of her lap.
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mrs. Fillson.
“You’re not, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely. “You did it a purpose.”
“There, there!” said both men feebly.
“Of course my husband’ll sit quite calm and see me insulted,” said Mrs. Bunnett, rising angrily from her seat.
“And my husband’ll sit still drinking tea while I’m given the lie,” said Mrs. Fillson, bending an indignant look upon the mate.