Franklin muttered, "Depends on what the wife is up to." The steward
leaning against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that
newcomer, that ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He
snarled: "Wife! Call her a wife, do you?"
"What the devil do you mean by this?" exclaimed young Powell.
"I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board for
nothing. You had better ask her when we get back."
And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward
retreated backwards.
Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. "And you let that
confounded bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well,
I am astonished."
"Oh, it isn't what you think. It isn't what you think." Mr. Franklin
looked more apoplectic than ever. "If it comes to that I could astonish
you. But it's no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn't
understand. I hope you won't try to make mischief. There was a time,
young fellow, when I would have dared any man--any man, you hear?--to
make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not now. Not now.
There's a change! Not in me though . . . "
Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making mischief.
"Who do you take me for?" he cried. "Only you had better tell that
steward to be careful what he says before me or I'll spoil his good looks
for him for a month and will leave him to explain the why of it to the
captain the best way he can."
This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing
more bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care
for the steward's black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the
best of times and avoiding now the only topic near his heart, addressed
him only on matters of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very
little. The woes of the apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long
before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at times. Therefore the little
intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in one dog-watch or the other was
something to be looked forward to. The captain did not mind it. That
was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were then alone
on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell had
to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him
questions.
"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down
the weather side of the poop.