As the day wore away and the desired permission failed to materialize, the forecastle became piqued at what it considered the skipper's gratuitous ungraciousness. Slim waxed particularly indignant.
"He'll 'see about it,'" Slim sneered. "He never had no idea of letting us go in the first place. He's a cold-blooded son of a sea cook—that's what he is—and as for me, I'll never do another tap of work aboard the bloody hooker."
This was strong language. Of course, none of us took it seriously, feeling sure Slim would reconsider by the next morning and turn to for work with the rest of us. But we did not know Slim. Bright and early Monday morning, the men mustered on deck and went to work, but Slim remained in his bunk.
Having rowed our whale bone to the dock and stored it in a warehouse to await the first steamer for San Francisco, a boat's crew towed three or four hogsheads roped together ashore for water. Another boat went ashore for coal. Those left aboard the brig were put to work in the hold near the main hatch under the supervision of Mr. Winchester. The mate suddenly noted Slim's absence.
"Where's Slim?" he asked.
Nobody answered.
"He didn't go ashore in the boats," said the mate. "Where is he?"
Someone volunteered that Slim was sick.
"Sick, eh?" said the mate.
He hustled off to the forecastle scuttle.