"It isn't us that minds waiting, it's our stomachs," said Fish, the small-faced man. "Do you mean to tell me you can't get a meal out of the food in your hands?" demanded the captain, pointing amongst them. "We'd rayther drink cold water than the tea," said one. "And the water ain't over-drinkable, neither," exclaimed another. "The cook shays te pork 'll gif us te cholera," said one of the Dutchmen. "We wouldn't mind if the bread an' molasses was right," cried Fish. "But they aren't. Nothen's right. The werry weevils ain't ordinary; they're longer an' fatter nor common bread-worms." "Hold your jaw!" bawled Duckling. "The captain has spoke you fairer than any skipper that ever I sailed under would have spoke. So now cut forward--do you hear?--and finish your breakfast. Cook, come out from behind the mainmast, you loafing nigger, and leave the main-deck, or I'll make you trot to show the others the road." He pulled a brass-belaying pin out of the rail and flourished it. The captain walked aft to the wheel, leaving Duckling to finish off with the men. They moved away, talking in low grumbling tones among themselves, manifestly dissatisfied with the result of their conference, and presently were all in the forecastle. "I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Royle," said Duckling, turning impudently upon me; "you must wake up, if you please, and help me to keep those fellows in their place. No use in staring and listening. You must talk to 'em and curse 'em, damme! do you understand, Mr. Royle?" "No, I don't understand," I replied. "I don't believe in cursing men. I've seen that sort of thing tried, but it never answered." "Oh, I suppose you are one of those officers who call all hands to prayers before you reef down, are you?" he asked, with a coarse, sneering laugh. "I don't think Captain Coxon will appreciate your services much if that's your kind." "I am sorry you should misunderstand me," I answered gravely. "I believe I can do my work and get others to do theirs without foul language and knocking men down." "Thunder and lightning! what spooney skipper nursed _you_ at his breast? Could you knock a man down if you tried?" I glanced at him with a smile, and saw him running his eyes over me as though measuring my strength. There was enough of me, perhaps, to make him require time for his calculations. Sinewy and vigorous as his ill-built frame was, I was quite a match for him--half a head taller, and weighed more, with heavier arms upon me and a deeper chest than he; and was eight and twenty, whilst he was nearly fifty. "I think," said I, "that I _could_ knock a man down if I tried. Perhaps two. But then I don't try, and must be badly provoked in order to try. The skipper who nursed me was not a New Orleans man, but an Englishman, and something better--an English gentleman. That means that no one on board his ship ever gave him occasion to use his fists."