Miss Jewell eyed him composedly, albeit the corners of her mouth trembled. “Yes,” she said, unexpectedly.
Steps sounded above and came heavily down the companion-ladder. “Tide's almost on the turn,” said the mate, gruffly, from the door.
The skipper hesitated, but the mate stood aside for the girl to pass, and he followed her up on deck and assisted her to the jetty. For hours afterwards he debated with himself whether she really had allowed her hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary, or whether unconscious muscular action on his part was responsible for the phenomenon.
He became despondent as they left London behind, but the necessity of interfering between a goggle-eyed and obtuse mate and a pallid but no less obstinate cook helped to relieve him.
“He says he is going to sleep aft,” choked the mate, pointing to the cook's bedding.
“Quite right,” said the skipper. “I told him to. He's going to take his meals here, too. Anything to say against it?”
The mate sat down on a locker and fought for breath. The cook, still pale, felt his small, black mustache and eyed him with triumphant malice. “I told 'im they was your orders,” he remarked.
“And I told him I didn't believe him,” said the mate. “Nobody would. Whoever 'eard of a cook living aft? Why, they'd laugh at the idea.”
He laughed himself, but in a strangely mirthless fashion, and, afraid to trust himself, went up on deck and brooded savagely apart. Nor did he come down to breakfast until the skipper and cook had finished.
Mr. Jewell bore his new honors badly, and the inability to express their dissatisfaction by means of violence had a bad effect on the tempers of the crew. Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own, and, although the men doubted his ability at first, he was able to prove to them by actual experiment that he could cook worse than they supposed.