“If you think I’m going to share the state-room with that woman, George, you’re mistaken,” said Mrs. Bunnett in a terrible voice. “I’d sooner sleep on a doorstep.”
“And I’d sooner sleep on the scraper,” said Mrs. Fillson, regarding her foe’s scanty proportions.
“Very well, me an’ the mate’ll sleep there,” said the skipper wearily. “You can have the mate’s bunk and Mrs. Fillson can have the locker. You don’t mind, George?”
“Oh, George don’t mind,” said Mrs. Bunnett mimickingly; “anything’ll do for George. If you’d got the spirit of a man, you wouldn’t let me be insulted like this.”
“And if you’d got the spirit of a man,” said Mrs. Fillson, turning on her husband, “you wouldn’t let them talk to me like this. You never stick up for me.”
She flounced up on deck where Mrs. Bunnett, after a vain attempt to finish her tea, shortly followed her. The two men continued their meal for some time in silence.
“We’ll have to ’ave a quarrel just to oblige them, George,” said the skipper at length, as he put down his cup. “Nothing else’ll satisfy ’em.”
“It couldn’t be done,” said the mate, reaching over and clapping him on the back.
“Just pretend, I mean,” said the other.
“It couldn’t be done proper,” said the mate; “they’d see through it. We’ve sailed together five years now, an’ never ’ad what I could call a really nasty word.”