"Don't you roar at your officer," said the mate sternly. "Your manners
is worse than your cooking. You'd better stay with us a few trips to
improve 'em."
The "Bruiser" turned purple, and shivered with impotent wrath.
"We get a parcel o' pot-house loafers aboard here," continued the mate,
airily addressing the atmosphere, "and, blank my eyes! if they don't
think they're here to be waited on. You'll want me to wash your face for
you next, and do all your other dirty work, you--"
"George!" said a sad, reproving voice.
The mate started dramatically as the skipper appeared at the companion,
and stopped abruptly.
"For shame, George!" said the skipper. "I never expected to hear you
talk to anybody like that, especially to my friend Mr. Simmons."
"Your WOT? demanded the friend hotly.
"My friend," repeated the other gently; "and as to tenth-rate prize-
fighters, George, the 'Battersea Bruiser' might be champion of England,
if he'd only take the trouble to train."
"Oh, you're always sticking up for him," said the artful mate.
"He deserves it," said the skipper warmly. "He's always run straight,
'as Bill Simmons, and when I hear 'im being talked at like that, it
makes me go 'ot all over."
"Don't you take the trouble to go 'ot all over on my account," said the
"Bruiser" politely.
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