He struck in impatiently with the remark
that such lamentations over a man merely because he had taken a wife
seemed to him like lunacy.
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.
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