“You talked a damned sight too much,” said the hero, “you lean, lop-sided son of a tinker.”
“There’s ’is modesty ag’in,” said the cook, with a knowing smile. “’E’s busting with modesty, is George. You should ha’ seen ’im when a chap took ’is fortygraph.”
“Took his what?” said the skipper, becoming interested.
“His fortygraph,” said the cook. “’E was a young chap what was taking views for a noose-paper. ’E took George drippin’ wet just as ’e come out of the water, ’e took him arter ’e ’ad ’is face wiped, an’ ’e took ’im when ’e was sitting up swearing at a man wot asked ’im whether ’e was very wet.”
“An’ you told ’im where I lived, and what I was,” said George, turning on him and shaking his fist. “You did.”
“I did,” said the cook simply. “You’ll live to thank me for it, George.”
The other gave a dreadful howl, and rising from the deck walked forward and went below, giving a brother seaman who patted his shoulder as he passed a blow in the ribs, which nearly broke them. Those on deck exchanged glances.
“Well, I don’t know,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders; “seems to me if I’d saved a fellow-critter’s life I shouldn’t mind hearing about it.”
“That’s what you think,” said the skipper, drawing himself up a little. “If ever you do do anything of the kind perhaps you’ll feel different about it.”
“Well, I don’t see how you should know any more than me,” said the other.