From this time forth the “Bruiser” ruled the roost, and, his temper soured by his trials, ruled it with a rod of iron.  The crew, with the exception of Dowse, were small men getting into years, and quite unable to cope with him.  His attitude with the skipper was dangerously deferential, and the latter was sorely perplexed to think of a way out of the mess in which he found himself.

“He means business, George,” he said one day to the mate, as he saw the “Bruiser” watching him intently from the galley.

“He looks at you worse an’ worse,” was the mate’s cheering reply.  “The cooking’s spoiling what little temper he’s got left as fast as possible.”

“It’s the scandal I’m thinking of,” groaned the skipper; “all becos’ I like to be a bit pleasant to people.”

“You mustn’t look at the black side o’ things,” said the mate; “perhaps you won’t want to need to worry about that after he’s hit you.  I’d sooner be kicked by a horse myself.  He was telling them down for’ard the other night that he killed a chap once.”

The skipper turned green.  “He ought to have been hung for it,” he said vehemently.  “I wonder what juries think they’re for in this country.  If I’d been on the jury I’d ha’ had my way, if they’d starved me for a month!”

“Look here!” said the mate suddenly; “I’ve got an idea.  You go down below and I’ll call him up and start rating him.  When I’m in the thick of it you come and stick up for him.”

“George,” said the skipper, with glistening eyes, “you’re a wonder.  Lay it on thick, and if he hits you I’ll make it up to you in some way.”

He went below, and the mate, after waiting for some time, leaned over the wheel and shouted for the cook.

“What do you want?” growled the “Bruiser,” as he thrust a visage all red and streaky with his work from the galley.

“Why the devil don’t you wash them saucepans up?” demanded the mate, pointing to a row which stood on the deck.  “Do you think we shipped you becos we wanted a broken-nosed, tenth-rate prize-fighter to look at?”

“Tenth-rate!” roared the “Bruiser,” coming out on to the deck.

“Don’t you roar at your officer,” said the mate sternly.  “Your manners is worse than your cooking.  You’d better stay with us a few trips to improve ’em.”

The “Bruiser” turned purple, and shivered with impotent wrath.

“We get a parcel o’ pot-house loafers aboard here,” continued the mate, airily addressing the atmosphere, “and, blank my eyes! if they don’t think they’re here to be waited on.  You’ll want me to wash your face for you next, and do all your other dirty work, you—­”

“George!” said a sad, reproving voice.

The mate started dramatically as the skipper appeared at the companion, and stopped abruptly.

“For shame, George!” said the skipper.  “I never expected to hear you talk to anybody like that, especially to my friend Mr. Simmons.”