“If you don’t now,” said the mate, “you will at tea time. I’m not going to sit down there with them again alone. You needn’t think it. If you was to ask me what I’ve been eating I couldn’t tell you.” He moved off a bit as his table companions came up on deck, and the master of the _Foam_ deciding to take the bull by the horns, called both of them to him, and pointed out the beauties of the various passing craft. In the midst of his dis-course his wife moved off, leaving the unhappy man conversing alone with Mrs. Fillson, her face containing an expression such as is seen in the prints of the very best of martyrs as she watched them. At tea time the men sat in misery, Mrs. Bunnett passed Mrs. Fillson her tea without looking at her, an example which Mrs. Fillson followed in handing her the cut bread and butter. When she took the plate back it was empty, and Mrs. Bunnett, convulsed with rage, was picking the slices out of her lap. “Oh, I _am_ sorry,” said Mrs. Fillson. “You’re not, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely. “You did it a purpose.” “There, there!” said both men feebly. “Of course my husband’ll sit quite calm and see me insulted,” said Mrs. Bunnett, rising angrily from her seat. “And my husband’ll sit still drinking tea while I’m given the lie,” said Mrs. Fillson, bending an indignant look upon the mate. “If you think I’m going to share the state-room with that woman, George, you’re mistaken,” said Mrs. Bunnett in a terrible voice. “I’d sooner sleep on a doorstep.” “And I’d sooner sleep on the scraper,” said Mrs. Fillson, regarding her foe’s scanty proportions. “Very well, me an’ the mate’ll sleep there,” said the skipper wearily. “You can have the mate’s bunk and Mrs. Fillson can have the locker. You don’t mind, George?” “Oh, George don’t mind,” said Mrs. Bunnett mimickingly; “anything’ll do for George. If you’d got the spirit of a man, you wouldn’t let me be insulted like this.” “And if you’d got the spirit of a man,” said Mrs. Fillson, turning on her husband, “you wouldn’t let them talk to me like this. You never stick up for me.” She flounced up on deck where Mrs. Bunnett, after a vain attempt to finish her tea, shortly followed her. The two men continued their meal for some time in silence. “We’ll have to ’ave a quarrel just to oblige them, George,” said the skipper at length, as he put down his cup. “Nothing else’ll satisfy ’em.” “It couldn’t be done,” said the mate, reaching over and clapping him on the back. “Just pretend, I mean,” said the other. “It couldn’t be done proper,” said the mate; “they’d see through it. We’ve sailed together five years now, an’ never ’ad what I could call a really nasty word.” “Well, if you can think o’ anything,” said the skipper, “say so. This sort o’ thing is worrying.” “See how we get on at breakfast,” said the mate, as he lit his pipe. “If that’s as bad as this, we’ll have a bit of a row to please ’em.”