More Cargoes. William Wymark Jacobs

‘un one of these days.”

      The skipper, with the weapon in question gripped in his fist, turned round and stared at him in petrified amazement.

      “If I wasn’t the cap’n o’ this ship, George,” he said huskily, “an’ bound to set a good example to the men, I’d whop you for them words.”

      “It’s all for your good, Captain Bunnett,” said Mrs. Fillson mincingly. “There was a poor old workhouse man I used to give a penny to some times, who would eat with his knife, and he choked himself with it.”

      “Ay, he did that, and he hadn’t got a mouth half the size o’ yours,” said the mate warningly.

      “Cap’n or no cap’n, crew or no crew,” said the skipper in a suffocating voice, “I can’t stand this. Come up on deck, George, and repeat them words.”

      “Before the mate could accept the invitation, he was dragged back by his wife, while at the same time Mrs. Bunnett, with a frantic scream, threw her arms round her husband’s neck, and dared him to move.

      “You wait till I get you ashore, my lad,” said the skipper threateningly.

      “I’ll have to bring the ship home after I’ve done with you,” retorted the mate as he passed up on deck with his wife.

      During the afternoon the couples exchanged not a word, though the two husbands exchanged glances of fiery import, and later on, their spouses being below, gradually drew near to each other. The mate, however, had been thinking, and as they came together met his foe with a pleasant smile.

      “Bravo, old man,” he said heartily.

      “What d’yer mean?” demanded the skipper in gruff astonishment.

      “I mean the way you pretended to row me,” said the mate. “Splendid you did it. I tried to back you up, but lor! I wasn’t in it with you.”

      “What, d’yer mean to say you didn’t mean what you said?” inquired the other.

      “Why, o’ course,” said the mate with an appearance of great surprise. “You didn’t, did you?”

      “No,” said the skipper, swallowing something in his throat. “No, o’ course not. But you did it well too, George. Uncommon well, you did.”

      “Not half so well as you did,” said the mate. “Well, I s’pose we’ve got to keep it up now.”

      “I s’pose so,” said the skipper; “but we mustn’t keep it up on the same things, George. Swallerin’ knives an’ that sort o’ thing, I mean.”

      “No, no,” said the mate hastily.

      “An’ if you could get your missus to go home by train from Summercove, George, we might have a little peace and quietness,” added the other.

      “She’d never forgive me if I asked her,” said the mate: “you’ll have to order it, cap’n.”

      “I won’t do that, George,” said the skipper firmly. “I’d never treat a lady like that aboard my ship. I ‘ope I know ‘ow to behave myself if I do eat with my knife.”

      “Stow that,” said the mate, reddening. “We’ll wait an’ see what turns up,” he added hopefully.

      For the next three days nothing fresh transpired, and the bickering between the couples, assumed on the part of the men and virulent on the part of their wives, went from bad to worse.

      It was evident that the ladies preferred it to any other amusement life on ship-board could offer, and, after a combined burst of hysterics on their part, in which the whole ship’s company took a strong interest, the husbands met to discuss heroic remedies.

      “It’s getting worse and worse,” said the skipper ruefully. “We’ll be the laughing stock o’ the crew even afore they’re done with us. There’s another day afore we reach Summercove, there’s five or six days there, an’ at least five back again.”

      “There’ll be murder afore then,” said the mate, shaking his head.

      “If we could only pack ‘em both ‘ome by train,” continued the skipper.

      “That’s an expense,” said the mate.

      “It ‘ud be worth it,” said the other.

      “An’ they wouldn’t do it,” said the mate, “neither of ‘em.”

      “I’ve seen women having rows afore,” said the skipper, “but then they could get away from each other. It’s being boxed up in this little craft as does the mischief.”

      “S’pose we pretend the ship’s not seaworthy,” said the mate.

      “Then they’d stand by us,” said the skipper, “closer than ever.”

      “I b’leeve they would,” said the mate. “They’d go fast enough if we’d got a case o’ small-pox or anything like that aboard, though.”

      The skipper grunted assent.

      “It ‘ud be worth trying,” said the mate. “We’ve pretended to have a quarrel. Now just as we’re going into port let one of the hands, the boy if you like, pretend he’s sickening for small-pox.”

      “How’s he going to do it?” inquired the skipper derisively.

      “You leave it to me,” replied the other. “I’ve got an idea how it’s to be done.”

      Against his better judgment the skipper, after some demur, consented, and the following day, when the passengers were on deck gazing at the small port of Summercove as they slowly approached it, the cook came up excitedly and made a communication to the skipper.

      “What?” cried the latter. “Nonsense.”

      “What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Bunnett, turning round.

      “Cook, here, has got it into his head that the boy’s got the smallpox,” said the skipper.

      Both women gave a faint scream.

      “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bunnett, with a pale face.

      “Rubbish,” said Mrs. Fillson, clasping her hands nervously.

      “Very good, mum,” said the cook calmly. “You know best, o’ course, but I was on a barque once what got it aboard bad, and I think I ought to know it when I see it.”

      “Yes; and now you think everything’s the small-pox,” said Mrs. Bunnett uneasily.

      “Very well, mum,” said the cook, spreading out his hands. “Will you come down an’ ‘ave a look at’im?”

      “No,” snapped Mrs. Bunnett, retreating a pace or two.

      “Will you come down an’ ‘ave a look at ‘im, sir,” inquired the cook.

      “You stay where you are, George,” said Mrs. Bunnett shrilly, as her husband moved forward. “Go farther off, cook.”

      “And keep your tongue still when we get to port,” said the mate. “Don’t go blabbing it all over the place, mind, or we sha’n’t get nobody to work us out.”

      “Ay, ay,” said the cook, moving off. “I ain’t afraid of it—I’ve given it to people, but I’ve never took it myself yet.”