"Very good," said the skipper. "Ted, come here. Where's your other
clothes?"
"I'm very sorry, sir," said Ted, shifting uneasily from one leg to the
other, and glancing at the mate for support; "but they ain't fit for the
likes of you to wear, sir." "I'm the best judge of that," said the
skipper sharply. "Fetch 'em up."
"Well, to tell the truth, sir," said Ted, "I'm like the mate. I'm only a
poor sailor-man, but I wouldn't lend my clothes to the Queen of
England."
"You fetch up them clothes," roared the skipper snatching off his bonnet
and flinging it on the deck. "Fetch 'em up at once. D'ye think I'm going
about in these petticuts?"
"They're my clothes," muttered Ted doggedly.
"Very well, then, I'll have Bill's," said the skipper. "But mind you, my
lad, I'll make you pay for this afore I've done with you. Bill's the
only honest man aboard this ship. Gimme your hand, Bill, old man."
"I'm with them two," said Bill gruffly, as he turned away.
The skipper, biting his lips with fury, turned from one to the other,
and then, with a big oath, walked forward. Before he could reach the
fo'c'sle Bill and Ted dived down before him, and, by the time he had
descended, sat on their chests side by side confronting him. To threats
and appeals alike they turned a deaf ear, and the frantic skipper was
compelled at last to go on deck again, still encumbered with the hated
skirts.
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