Part 31 (1/2)
The moment the purser was gone Jones came up to our hero.
”Brute, ain't he?” he said, in a low voice.
”He called me a blockhead.” Randy's eyes were flas.h.i.+ng.
”Don't you mind him, lad. He is sour all the way through--he don't seem to be able to help it.”
”I didn't see him coming.”
”He should have looked where he was walking.”
”I don't wonder the hands don't like him,” went on Randy. ”I don't think Captain Hadley would have spoken so.”
”Not a bit of it--the captain's a gentleman, every inch of him.”
”How do he and the purser get along together?”
”None too good, so I've been told. I wish we had a man in place of Polk.”
”So do I.”
”More than likely, when he comes to pay you your wages, he'll take out the price of a shoe s.h.i.+ne.”
”Would he really be mean enough to do that?”
”Polk is about mean enough to do anything.”
There the talk ended and Randy finished up his work. The day pa.s.sed, and when the steamboat tied up that night Randy was more than usually sleepy. It was very warm, and he went on the upper deck to get a breath of fresh air.
”See here,” said the purser, coming up to him rather suddenly. ”Are you talking about me?”
”Talking about you?” repeated our hero, somewhat puzzled.
”That is what I said.”
”Not particularly, Mr. Polk.”
”Somebody on this boat is telling tales about me, and I don't like it.”
To this Randy made no answer.
”Have you heard any stories?” went on Peter Polk.
”What kind of stories?”
”That I was going to leave the steamboat?”
”No, sir.”