“What ’s gone wrong, lad?” he asked, half laughing. “Cussing won’t mend it.”
I turned to him. “I don’t know about that, Peter,” I said. “It relieves my mind. I feel better already.”
He laughed. “Do you so? Well, mebbe. But, Timmie, I ’ll have something for you to-morrow.”
“Got your model done, Peter?” I asked eagerly. I had been but little in the forecastle for months. I did not want to have to speak to Smith, or even to see him.
“Mebbe I have,” he answered, smiling. “Mebbe I have. I could be tinkering at it longer, but I don’t believe ’t would better it. I ’ll give it to you to-morrow.”
“Can’t you give it to me now, Peter? You might as well. You won’t do anything more to it.”
“Well,” said Peter, almost coyly. “Well, I might get it now. But come up for’ard, or into the fo’c’s’le. I ought not to be standing here, gamming.”
I hesitated. I was reluctant to go into the forecastle. “I don’t like to, Peter. I—you see—Smith—”
“Aye,” said Peter soberly, “I know. Smith—well he ’ll get the lance the first thing he knows. He ’s worse and worse, as independent as a clerk; fair reckless. The old man gave him another dressing-down a few days ago, a stiff one. Did you know it?”
I nodded. I knew it, although I did not hear it.