“Yes, that’s what made me a bit more loving than I should ha’ been,” mused the skipper.  “However, all’s well that ends well.  How did you get on about the cook?  Did you ship one?”

“Yes, I’ve got one, but he’s only signed as far as Fairhaven,” replied the mate.  “Fine strong chap he is.  He’s too good for a cook.  I never saw a better built man in my life.  It’ll do your eyes good to look at him.  Here, cook!”

At the summons a huge, close-cropped head was thrust out of the galley, and a man of beautiful muscular development stepped out before the eyes of the paralyzed skipper, and began to remove his coat.

“Ain’t he a fine chap?” said the mate admiringly.  “Show him your biceps, cook.”

With a leer at the captain the cook complied.  He then doubled his fists, and, ducking his head scientifically, danced all round the stupefied master of the Frolic.

“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.”