"Nothing, sir," the fellow answered, stopping immediately.
"What's your name?"
Mr. Pike never spoke to a sailor save with a snarl.
"Charles Davis, sir."
"What are you limping about?"
"I ain't limpin', sir," the man answered respectfully, and, at a nod
of dismissal from the mate, marched off jauntily along the deck with
a heodlum swing to the shoulders.
"He's a sailor all right," the mate grumbled; "but I'll bet you a
pound of tobacco or a month's wages there's something wrong with
him."
The forecastle now seemed empty, but the mate turned on the bosuns
with his customary snarl.
"What in hell are you doing? Sleeping? Think this is a rest cure?
Get in there an' rustle 'em out!"
Sundry Buyers pressed his abdomen gingerly and hesitated, while
Nancy, his face one dogged, long-suffering bleakness, reluctantly
entered the forecastle. Then, from inside, we heard oaths, vile and
filthy, urgings and expostulations on the part of Nancy, meekly and
pleadingly uttered.
I noted the grim and savage look that came on Mr.
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