“And I’m the master,” said the other; “if the master of a ship can stay down the foc’sle, I’m sure a tuppeny-ha’penny mate can.”
“The men don’t like it,” objected the mate.
“Damn the men,” said the skipper politely, “and as to starving the chap, there’s a water-bottle full o’ water in my state-room, to say nothing of a jug, and a bag o’ biscuits under the table.”
The mate walked off whistling, and the skipper, by no means so easy in his mind as he pretended to be, began to consider ways and means out of the difficulty which he foresaw must occur when they reached port.
“What sort o’ looking chap is he?” he inquired of the cook.
“Big, strong-looking chap,” was the reply.
“Look as though he’d make a fuss if I sent you and Bill down below to gag him when we get to the other end?” suggested the skipper.
The cook said that judging by appearances “fuss” would be no word for it.
“I can’t understand him keeping so quiet,” said the skipper; “that’s what gets over me.”
“He’s biding ’is time, I expect,” said the cook comfortingly. “He’s a ’ard looking customer, ’sides which he’s likely sea-sick.”