They waited in silence, and presently the tall figure of the mate was seen in the outer office, through the glass door, lounging toward them. He opened the door in a minute, and came in carelessly, chewing slowly, and nodding once to Mr. Atkins. A tall man, dressed sailor-fashion, in a blue shirt and pea-jacket, with a straw hat set negligently on his head, and a grave, inscrutable, sunburnt face, with straight manly features and dull blue eyes.
“Mr. Jones,” said the merchant, his face a deeper purple, but his voice constrained to the calm of settled rage, “this is a fine liberty you have taken. I want to know what you mean by it?”
“What do you refer to, Mr. Atkins?” returned the mate, stolidly.
“What do I refer to, sir? you know what I refer to. I refer to your taking that man from my brig,” roared the merchant.
“Mr. Atkins,” replied the mate, phlegmatically, “Bangham, there, was going to take that poor devil back to Orleans. You don’t mean to tell me that you meant he should do it?”
“Yes, sir, I did mean he should do it,” the merchant vociferated.
“Then you’re a damned scoundrel,” said the mate, with the utmost composure.
Captain Bangham gave a long whistle, and sat mute with stupefaction. Mr. Atkins turned perfectly livid, and stared at the mate with his mouth pursed into an oval hole, perfectly aghast at this insolence, and almost wondering whether he had heard aright.
“You infernal rascal,” he howled, springing to his feet the next instant, purple with rage, “do you dare to apply such an epithet to me? You—to me?”
“To you?” thundered the seaman, in a voice that made Mr. Atkins drop into his chair as if he was shot. “To you? And who are you? You damned lubberly, purse-proud aristocrat, do you want me to take you by the heels and throw you out of that window? Call me that name again, and I’ll do it as soon as I’d eat. You, indeed? You’re the Lord High Brown, aint you? You’re the Lord Knows Who, you blasted old money-grubber, aint you! You, indeed!”