The mate rushed aft and began to haul in the ship’s boat, but George caught him suddenly by the arm.
“Never mind,” he said bitterly; “better let her go. She seems to know too much for me. Somebody’s been talking to her.”
It was the same thought that was troubling the skipper, and he looked searchingly from one to the other for an explanation. He fancied that he saw it when he met the eye of the mate of the brig, and he paused irresolutely as the skiff reached the stairs, and the woman, springing ashore, waved the clothes triumphantly in the direction of the schooner and disappeared.
AN INTERVENTION
There was bad blood between the captain and mate who comprised the officers and crew of the sailing-barge “Swallow”; and the outset of their voyage from London to Littleport was conducted in glum silence. As far as the Nore they had scarcely spoken, and what little did pass was mainly in the shape of threats and abuse. Evening, chill and overcast, was drawing in; distant craft disappeared somewhere between the waste of waters and the sky, and the side-lights of neighbouring vessels were beginning to shine over the water. The wind, with a little rain in it, was unfavourable to much progress, and the trough of the sea got deeper as the waves ran higher and splashed by the barge’s side.
“Get the side-lights out, and quick, you,” growled the skipper, who was at the helm.
The mate, a black-haired, fierce-eyed fellow of about twenty-five, set about the task with much deliberation.
“And look lively, you lump,” continued the skipper.
“I don’t want none of your lip,” said the mate furiously; “so don’t you give me none.”
The skipper yawned, and stretching his mighty frame laughed disagreeably. “You’ll take what I give you, my lad,” said he, “whether it’s lip or fist.”