his mouth. "Hope we don't run into no ships."

He winked at Tim, the weakling hatter, who took the cue and
mourned:

"I'm kinda afraid we're going to, ain't you, Pete? The mate was
telling me he was scared we would."

"Sures' t'ing you know. Hey, Wrennie, wait till youse have to
beat it down-stairs and tie up a bull in a storm. Hully gee!
Youse'll last quick on de game, Birdie!"

"Oh, shut up," snapped Wrennie's friend Morton.

But Morton was seasick; and Pete, not heeding him, outlined
other dangers which he was happily sure were threatening them.
Wrennie shivered to hear that the "grub 'd git worse." He
writhed under Pete's loud questions about his loss, in some
cattle-pen, of the gray-and-scarlet sweater-jacket which he had
proudly and gaily purchased in New York for his work on the
ship. And the card-players assured him that his suit-case,
which he had intrusted to the Croac ship's carpenter, would
probably be stolen by "Satan."

Satan! Wrennie shuddered still more. For Satan, the gaunt-jawed
hook-nosed rail-faced head foreman, diabolically smiling when
angry, sardonically sneering when calm, was a lean human
whip-lash. Pete sniggered. He dilated upon Satan's wrath at
Wrennie for not "coming across" with ten dollars for a bribe
as he, Pete, had done.