Many Cargoes

“Ah! and she’d believe him afore she would me, too, an’ we’ve been married seventeen years,” said the skipper mournfully.

“Perhaps that’s”—began the mate, and stopped suddenly.

“Perhaps what?” inquired the other, after waiting a reasonable time for him to finish.

“H’m, I forgot what I was going to say,” said the mate. “Funny, it’s gone now. Well, you’re all right now. You’d intended this to be the last trip to London for some time.”

“Yes, that’s what made me a bit more loving than I should ha’ been,” mused the skipper. “However, all’s well that ends well. How did you get on about the cook? Did you ship one?”

“Yes, I’ve got one, but he’s only signed as far as Fairhaven,” replied the mate. “Fine strong chap he is. He’s too good for a cook. I never saw a better built man in my life. It’ll do your eyes good to look at him. Here, cook!”

At the summons a huge, close-cropped head was thrust out of the galley, and a man of beautiful muscular development stepped out before the eyes of the paralyzed skipper, and began to remove his coat.

“Ain’t he a fine chap?” said the mate admiringly. “Show him your biceps, cook.”

With a leer at the captain the cook complied. He then doubled his fists, and, ducking his head scientifically, danced all round the stupefied master of the Frolic.

“Put your dooks up,” he cried warningly. “I’m going to dot you!”

“What the deuce are you up to, cook?” demanded the mate, who had been watching his proceedings in speechless amazement.

“Cook!” said the person addressed, with majestic scorn. “I’m no cook; I’m Bill Simmons, the ‘Battersea Bruiser,’ an’ I shipped on this ere little tub all for your dear captin’s sake. I’m going to put sich a ‘ed on ‘im that when he wants to blow his nose he’ll have to get a looking-glass to see where to go to. I’m going to give ‘im a licking every day, and when we get to Fairhaven I’m going to foller ‘im ‘ome and tell his wife about ‘im walking out with my sister.”

“She walked me out,” said the skipper, with dry lips.

“Put ‘em up,” vociferated the “Bruiser.”

“Don’t you touch me, my lad,” said the skipper, dodging behind the wheel. “Go an’ see about your work—go an’ peel the taters.”

“Wot!” roared the “Bruiser.”

“You’ve shipped as cook aboard my craft,” said the skipper impressively. “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 shirkers 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 ashore,” 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 pass the word to the crew not to let him know your address, anyhow.”

The morning passed 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 buttered 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, snatching 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.

“I won’t turn it up at anything,” said Sam earnestly, as he tenderly felt the member in question.

“You’re the only one as ‘as complained,” said the “Bruiser.” “You’re dainty, that’s wot you are. Look at the others—look how they’re eating theirs!”

At this hint the others came out of their bunks and fell to, and the “Bruiser” became affable.

“It’s wonderful wot I can turn my ‘and to,” he remarked pleasantly. “Things come natural to me that other men have to learn. You ‘d better put a bit of raw beef on that eye o’ yours, Sam.”

The thoughtless Sam clapped on a piece from his plate, and it was only by the active intercession of the rest of the crew that the sensitive cook was prevented from inflicting more punishment.

From this time forth the “Bruiser” ruled the roost, and, his temper soured by his trials, ruled it with a rod of iron. The crew, with the exception of Dowse, were small men getting into years, and quite unable to cope with him. His attitude with the skipper was dangerously deferential, and the latter was sorely perplexed to think of a way out of the mess in which he found himself.

“He means business, George,” he said one day to the mate, as he saw the “Bruiser” watching him intently from the galley.

“He looks at you worse an’ worse,” was the mate’s cheering reply. “The cooking’s spoiling what little temper he’s got left as fast as possible.”

“It’s the scandal I’m thinking of,” groaned the skipper; “all becos’ I like to be a bit pleasant to people.”

“You mustn’t look at the black side o’ things,” said the mate; “perhaps you won’t want to need to worry about that after he’s hit you. I’d sooner be kicked by a horse myself. He was telling them down for’ard the other night that he killed a chap once.”

The skipper turned green. “He ought to have been hung for it,” he said vehemently. “I wonder what juries think they’re for in this country. If I’d been on the jury I’d ha’ had my way, if they’d starved me for a month!”