He walked to the bridge-rail, put two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill blast. Presently out of the little forecastle emerged a stout man in a canvas apron and sporting a large well-nourished moustache. Mr. Spokesly's heart sank.
"Come here!" he shouted, beckoning.
"What's the matter, Mister?" said the aproned one, climbing up the abominable ladder with its stairs of iron rods. Mr. Spokesly's heart rose again.
"You English?" he asked.
"Sure, I'm a French Canadian," retorted the other. "What's the matter? Are you the new mate?"
"Yes," said Mr. Spokesly. "I'm the new mate. Are you the bosun?"
"Sure I am," said the other indignantly. "What did you think I was? The cook?"
"Now, now, cut it out," warned the new mate. "I've had all I can stand just for the present. How many men have you got?"
"Three. How many did you think I got? Thirty?"
"Bosun, if you want it, you can have it, but I tell you straight you got to help me get this ship clean."