George rose, and, first uttering some terrible threats against the cook, who bore them with noble fortitude, went on deck and followed the skipper to the cabin.
At his superior’s request he took a seat on the locker, awkwardly enough, but smiled faintly as the skipper produced a bottle and a couple of glasses.
“Your health, George,” said the skipper, as he pushed a glass towards him and raised his own.
“My bes’ respec’s, sir,” said George, allowing the liquor to roll slowly round his mouth before swallowing it. He sighed heavily, and, putting his empty glass on the table, allowed his huge head to roll on his chest.
“Saving life don’t seem to agree with you, George,” said the skipper. “I like modesty, but you seem to me to carry it a trifle too far.”
“It ain’t modesty, sir,” said George; “it’s that fortygraph. When I think o’ that I go ’ot all over.”
“I shouldn’t let that worry me if I was you, George,” said the other kindly. “Looks ain’t everything.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said George very sourly. “My looks is good enough for me. In fact, it is partly owing to my looks, so to speak, that I’m in a mess.”
“A little more rum, George?” said the skipper, whose curiosity was roused. “I don’t want to know your business, far from it. But in my position as cap’n, if any of my crew gets in a mess I consider it’s my duty to lend them a hand out of it, if I can.”
“The world ’ud be a better place if there was more like you,” said George, waxing sentimental as he sniffed delicately at the fragrant beverage. “If that noosepaper, with them pictures, gets into a certain party’s ’ands, I’m ruined.”