Page:Cruise of the Dry Dock.djvu/41

 “Sailor, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

“Not another dry dock, I trust,” laughed Madden, turning to work.

“No.”

“Windjammer?”

“Yes.”

Leonard nodded at his painting. “Fishing smack, I'll bet.”

The cross-questioning was interrupted by a raucous voice overhead, and both boys looked up to see the mate's thick torso hanging over the rail. He was shaking his fist at the tall Englishman.

“W'ot you think we brought you along for?” he bawled savagely. “To give lectures? If you don't paint and quit blowin', you win' bag, I'll ship you at Penzance!”

Caradoc's face went white, leaving threadlike purple veins showing on nose and cheeks. “I'm willing to do my duty,” he said with a quiver in his tone. He glanced at his empty paint bucket. “If I'm to work, bring me paint—I'm out!”

Caradoc seemed to be able to make the mate madder and do it quicker than anyone else.