Mr. Walters eyed him uneasily, and with his cap firmly gripped in his left hand saluted him with the right. Then he turned his head sideways toward the passage. The captain repeated his question in a voice, if anything, louder than before.
The strained appearance of Mr. Walters's countenance relaxed.
"Come here for my baccy-box, wot I left here the other day," he said, glibly, "when you sent me."
"What were you making that infernal row about, then?" demanded the captain.
Mr. Walters cast an appealing glance toward the passage and listened acutely. "I was—grumbling because—I couldn't—find it," he said, with painstaking precision.
"Grumbling?" repeated the captain. "That ugly voice of yours was enough to bring the ceiling down. What was the matter with that man that burst out of the gate as we came in, eh?"
The boatswain's face took on a wooden expression.
"He—his nose was bleeding," he said, at last.
"I know that," said the captain, grimly; "but what made it bleed?"
For a moment Mr. Walters looked like a man who has been given a riddle too difficult for human solution. Then his face cleared again.