"Yes, yes!" shouted the exasperated chief officer. "What's your name? Moses, Isaac, Abraham, eh? Never mind, come on." He led the way into the saloon and waved his hands. The cat rushed out of the door, followed by a kick.
"Now you clean up, understand?"
To his unalloyed delight the youth did understand. The latter's nervous prostration had been due chiefly to the fact that he was entirely ignorant of what was expected of him. He took off his deplorable coat and grasped a bucket.
Mr. Spokesly went downstairs again.
Mr. Spiteri was resting on one elbow watching the steward take his simple personal effects from the drawers under the bunk and stow them in an old suitcase.
"Get up on deck," ordered Mr. Spokesly. "I wouldn't have a swab like you in the forecastle. Don't wonder the Old Man complained."
Mr. Spiteri rose half way, coughed and spat, rose to his feet, and wavered uncertainly towards the stairs.
"Come on, stuff 'em in! That'll do. Now take it up and pitch it into the boat."
The steward hurried up with the bulging and half-closed suitcase and Mr. Spokesly followed with his predecessor's boots.
"Down you go," he said, dropping the boots into the boat and following them up with the suitcase. "That's it," as he saw Mr. Spiteri step from the ladder and topple against the thwarts. "Now we'll see who's in charge of this ship."