“It couldn’t be done,” said the mate, reaching over and clapping him on the back.
“Just pretend, I mean,” said the other.
“It couldn’t be done proper,” said the mate; “they’d see through it. We’ve sailed together five years now, an’ never ’ad what I could call a really nasty word.”
“Well, if you can think o’ anything,” said the skipper, “say so. This sort o’ thing is worrying.”
“See how we get on at breakfast,” said the mate, as he lit his pipe. “If that’s as bad as this, we’ll have a bit of a row to please ’em.”
Breakfast next morning was, if anything, worse, each lady directly inciting her lord to acts of open hostility. In this they were unsuccessful, but in the course of the morning the husbands arranged matters to their own satisfaction, and at the next meal the storm broke with violence.
“I don’t wish to complain or hurt anybody’s feelings,” said the skipper, after a side-wink at the mate, “but if you could eat your wittles with a little less noise, George, I’d take it as a favour.”
“Would you?” said the mate, as his wife stiffened suddenly in her seat. “Oh!”
Both belligerents, eyeing each other ferociously, tried hard to think of further insults.
“Like a pig,” continued the skipper grumblingly.