"They've been with me
a long time, and they're all good men. Why don't they have a go at you,
I wonder?"
"ME?" said the mate, in indignant surprise. "Why, I'm a Seventh Day
Baptist! They don't want to waste their time over me. I'm all right."
"You're a pretty Seventh Day Baptist, you are!" replied the skipper.
"Fust I've heard of it."
"You don't understand about such things," said the mate.
"It must be a very easy religion," continued the skipper.
"I don't make a show of it, if that's what you mean," rejoined the other
warmly. "I'm one o' them as believe in 'iding my light under a bushel."
"A pint pot'ud do easy," sneered the skipper. "It's more in your line,
too."
"Anyway, the men reckernise it," said the mate loftily. "They don't go
an' sit in their red jerseys an' hold mothers' meetings over me."
"I'll knock their blessed heads off!" growled the skipper. "I'll learn
'em to insult me!"
"It's all for your own good," said the other. "They mean it kindly.
Well, I wish 'em luck."
With these hardy words he retired, leaving a seething volcano to pace
the deck, and think over ways and means of once more reducing his crew
to what he considered a fit and proper state of obedience and respect.
The climax was reached at tea-time, when an anonymous hand was thrust
beneath the skylight, and a full-bodied tract fluttered wildly down and
upset his tea.
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