“Put your dooks up,” he cried warningly. “I’m going to dot you!” “What the deuce are you up to, cook?” demanded the mate, who had been watching his proceedings in speechless amazement. “Cook!” said the person addressed, with majestic scorn. “I’m no cook; I’m Bill Simmons, the ‘Battersea Bruiser,’ an’ I shipped on this ere little tub all for your dear captin’s sake. I’m going to put sich a ’ed on ’im that when he wants to blow his nose he’ll have to get a looking-glass to see where to go to. 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. “I’ve got no quarrel with you, my lad,” the boy remarked with dignity, as he caught the new cook’s eye. “Go and cook the dinner,” said the skipper; “and look sharp about it. I don’t want to have to find fault with a young beginner like you; but I don’t have no shirkers aboard—understand that.” For one moment of terrible suspense the skipper’s life hung in the balance, then the “Bruiser,” restraining his natural instincts by a mighty effort, retreated, growling, to the galley. The skipper’s breath came more freely. “He don’t know your address, I s’pose,” said the mate. “No, but he’ll soon find it out when we get ashore,” replied the other dolefully. “When I think that I’ve got to take that brute to my home to make mischief I feel tempted to chuck him overboard almost.” “It is a temptation,” agreed the mate loyally, closing his eyes to his chief’s physical deficiencies. “I’ll pass the word to the crew not to let him know your address, anyhow.”