“It’s sheer rank wickedness, that’s what it is,” said the skipper, a small elderly man, with grizzled beard and light blue eyes.
“Rank,” agreed the mate, whose temperament was laconic.
“Why, when I was a boy you wouldn’t believe what I had to eat,” said the skipper; “not if I took my Bible oath on it, you wouldn’t.”
“They’re dainty,” said the mate.
“Dainty!” said the other indignantly. “What right have hungry sailormen to be dainty? Don’t I give them enough to eat? Look! Look there!”
He drew back, choking, and pointed with his forefinger as Bill Smith, A.B., came on deck with a plate held at arm’s length, and a nose disdainfully elevated. He affected not to see the skipper, and, walking in a mincing fashion to the side, raked the food from the plate into the sea with his fingers. He was followed by George Simpson, A.B., who in the same objectionable fashion wasted food which the skipper had intended should nourish his frame.
“I’ll pay ’em for this!” murmured the skipper.
“There’s some more,” said the mate.
Two more men came on deck, grinning consciously, and disposed of their dinners. Then there was an interval—an interval in which everybody, fore and aft, appeared to be waiting for something; the something being at that precise moment standing at the foot of the foc’sle ladder, trying to screw its courage up.
“If the boy comes,” said the skipper in a strained, unnatural voice, “I’ll flay him alive.”