"Well, Johnson, then, damn you! Can you guess why I have sent for you?"
"Yes, and no, sir," was the slow reply. "My work is done well. The mate knows that, and you know it, sir. So there cannot be any complaint."
"And is that all?" Wolf Larsen queried, his voice soft, and low, and purring.
"I know you have it in for me," Johnson continued with his unalterable and ponderous slowness. "You do not like me. You - You - "
"Go on," Wolf Larsen prompted. "Don't be afraid of my feelings."
"I am not afraid," the sailor retorted, a slight angry flush rising through his sunburn. "If I speak not fast, it is because I have not been from the old country as long as you. You do not like me because I am too much of a man; that is why, sir."
"You are too much of a man for ship discipline, if that is what you mean, and if you know what I mean," was Wolf Larsen's retort.
"I know English, and I know what you mean, sir," Johnson answered, his flush deepening at the slur on his knowledge of the English language.
"Johnson," Wolf Larsen said, with an air of dismissing all that had gone before as introductory to the main business in hand, " understand you're not quite satisfied with those oilskins?"
"No, I am not. They are no good, sir."
"And you've been shooting off your mouth about them."
"I say what I think, sir," the sailor answered courageously, not failing at the same time in ship courtesy, which demanded that "sir" be appended to each speech he made.
