Part 50 (2/2)

”If you lay a finger on me it's mutiny, and you'll get twelve months.”

”That's right,” said the mate, as the pugilist (who had once had fourteen days for bruising, and still held it in wholesome remembrance) paused irresolute. ”It's mutiny, and it'll also be my painful duty to get up the shotgun and blow the top of your ugly 'ed off.”

”Would it be mutiny if I was to dot YOU one?” inquired the ”Bruiser,” in a voice husky with emotion, as he sidled up to the mate.

”It would,” said the other hastily.

”Well, you're a nice lot,” said the disgusted ”Bruiser,” ”you and your mutinies. Will any one of you have a go at me?”

There was no response from the crew, who had gathered round, and were watching the proceedings with keen enjoyment.

”Or all of yer?” asked the ”Bruiser,” raising his eyebrows.

”I've got no quarrel with you, my lad,” the boy remarked with dignity, as he caught the new cook's eye.

”Go and cook the dinner,'” said the skipper; ”and look sharp about it. I don't want to have to find fault with a young beginner like you; but I don't have no s.h.i.+rkers aboard-understand that.”

For one moment of terrible suspense the skipper's life hung in the balance, then the ”Bruiser,” restraining his natural instincts by a mighty effort, retreated, growling, to the galley.

The skipper's breath came more freely.

”He don't know your address, I s'pose,” said the mate.

”No, but he'll soon find it out when we get ash.o.r.e,” replied the other dolefully. ”When I think that I've got to take that brute to my home to make mischief I feel tempted to chuck him overboard almost.”

”It is a temptation,” agreed the mate loyally, closing his eyes to his chief's physical deficiencies. ”I'll pa.s.s the word to the crew not to let him know your address, anyhow.”

The morning pa.s.sed quietly, the skipper striving to look unconcerned as the new cook grimly brought the dinner down to the cabin and set it before him. After toying with it a little while, the master of the Frolic dined off b.u.t.tered biscuit.

It was a matter of much discomfort to the crew that the new cook took his duties very seriously, and prided himself on his cooking. He was, moreover, disposed to be inconveniently punctilious about the way in which his efforts were regarded. For the first day the crew ate in silence, but at dinner-time on the second the storm broke.

”What are yer looking at your vittles like that for?” inquired the ”Bruiser” of Sam Dowse, as that able-bodied seaman sat with his plate in his lap, eyeing it with much disfavour. ”That ain't the way to look at your food, after I've been perspiring away all the morning cooking it.”

”Yes, you've cooked yourself instead of the meat,” said Sam warmly.

”It's a shame to spoil good food like that; it's quite raw.”

”You eat it!” said the ”Bruiser” fiercely; ”that's wot you've go to do.

Eat it!”

For sole answer the indignant Sam threw a piece at him, and the rest of the crew, s.n.a.t.c.hing up their dinners, hurriedly clambered into their bunks and viewed the fray from a safe distance.

”Have you 'ad enough?” inquired the ”Bruiser,” addressing the head of Sam, which protruded from beneath his left arm.

”I 'ave,” said Sam surlily.

”And you won't turn up your nose at good vittles any more?” inquired the ”Bruiser” severely.

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