“No hurry,” said the skipper, somewhat incensed at his haste. “It wouldn't have hurt you to have waited a bit.”
“Waited?” said the other. “What for?”
“For my visitors,” was the reply.
The mate bit a piece off a crust and stirred his tea. “No use waiting for them,” he said, with a grin. “They ain't coming.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the skipper.
“I mean,” said the mate, continuing to stir his tea with great enjoyment—“I mean that all that kind'artedness of yours was clean chucked away on that cook. He's got a berth ashore and he's gone for good. He left you 'is love; he left it with Bill Hemp.”
“Berth ashore?” said the skipper, staring. “Ah!” said the mate, taking a large and noisy sip from his cup. “He's been fooling you all along for what he could get out of you. Sleeping aft and feeding aft, nobody to speak a word to 'im, and going out and being treated by the skipper; Bill said he laughed so much when he was telling 'im that the tears was running down 'is face like rain. He said he'd never been treated so much in his life.”
“That'll do,” said the skipper, quickly.
“You ought to hear Bill tell it,” said the mate, regretfully. “I can't do it anything like as well as what he can. Made us all roar, he did. What amused 'em most was you thinking that that gal was cookie's sister.”
The skipper, with a sharp exclamation, leaned forward, staring at him.