“Lea’ go,” foamed the mate. “Let me get at him.”
“George,” said the skipper, still striving with him, “I’m ashamed of you.”
“Ashamed be damned,” yelled the mate, struggling. “What did he chuck my whisky away for?”
“He’s a saint,” said the skipper, relaxing his hold as he heard Mr. Hutchins lock himself in. “He’s a saint, George. Seein’ ’is beautiful words ’ad no effect on you, he ’ad recourse to strong measures.”
“Wait till I get hold of ’im,” said the mate menacingly. “Only wait, I’ll saint ’im.”
“Is he better, dear friend?” came the voice of Mr. Hutchins from beyond the door; “because I forgot the tumbler.”
“Come out,” roared the mate, “come out and upset it.”
Mr. Hutchins declined the invitation, but from behind the door pleaded tearfully with the mate to lead a better life, and even rebuked the skipper for allowing the bottle of sin to be produced in the cabin. The skipper took the rebuke humbly; and after requesting Mr. Hutchins to sleep in the state-room that night in order to frustrate the evident designs of the mate, went on deck for a final look round and then came below and turned in himself.
The crew of the schooner were early astir next morning getting under way, but Mr. Hutchins kept his bed, although the mate slipped down to the cabin several times and tapped at his door. When he did come up the mate was at the wheel and the men down below getting breakfast.
“Sleep well?” inquired Mr. Hutchins softly, as he took a seat on the hatches, a little distance from him.