Jim couldn't
make it out for the life of him. These fellows had their pipes and
cigars going; they were full of fun, and yet Jim could not hear an oath
or a lewd word. Gradually he began to feel a little sheepish, but
nevertheless he did not relinquish his desire to break up the service.
The skipper of the smack invited Jim to go below, and handed him a
steaming mug of tea.
"Where's your 'bacca?" said the skipper.
"Left him aboard."
"Never mind. Take half a pound and pay for it to-morrow. We sell the
best at a shilling a pound."
Jim gaped. Here was a decidedly practical religious agency. A shilling a
pound! Cheaper than the Copers' rubbish. Jim took a few pulls at the
strong, black tobacco, and began to reconsider his notion about smashing
up the service. He found the religious skipper was as good a fisherman
as anyone in the fleet; the talk was free from that horrible cant which
scares wild and manly men so easily, and the copper-coloured rowdy
almost enjoyed himself.
Presently the lively company filed into the hold, squatted on fish
boxes, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable.
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