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.
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