Mrs. Bunnett followed him on deck, and, getting as far from the mate’s wife as possible, watched with a superior air of part ownership the movements of the seamen as they got under way. A favourable westerly breeze was blowing, and the canvas once set she stood by her husband as he pointed out the various objects of interest on the banks of the river.
They were still in the thick of the traffic at dinner-time, so that the skipper was able, to his secret relief, to send the mate below to do the honours of the table. He came up from it pale and scared, and, catching the skipper’s eye, hunched his shoulders significantly.
“No words?” inquired the latter anxiously, in a half-whisper.
“Not exactly words,” replied the mate. “What you might call snacks.”
“I know,” said the other with a groan.
“If you don’t now,” said the mate, “you will at tea-time. I’m not going to sit down there with them alone again. You needn’t think it If you was to ask me what I’ve been eating I couldn’t tell you.”
He moved off a bit as his table companions came up on deck, and the master of the Foam deciding to take the bull by the horns, called both of them to him, and pointed out the beauties of the various passing craft. In the midst of his discourse his wife moved off, leaving the unhappy man conversing alone with Mrs. Fillson, her face containing an expression such as is seen in the prints of the very best of martyrs as she watched them.
At tea-time the men sat in misery; Mrs. Bunnett passed Mrs. Fillson her tea without looking at her, an example which Mrs. Fillson followed in handing her the cut bread and butter. When she took the plate back it was empty, and Mrs. Bunnett, convulsed with rage, was picking the slices out of her lap.
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mrs. Fillson.
“You’re not, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely. “You did it a purpose.”