Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 21, 2025
This he took in good part, and was really pleased, nodding his head with direful foreknowledge and mystery, until George Leach, the erstwhile cabin- boy, ventured some rough pleasantry on the subject. Now it happened that Leach was one of the sailors told off to douse Mugridge after his game of cards with the captain.
I bustled about in quite housewifely fashion, procuring soothing lotions for her sunburn, raiding Wolf Larsen's private stores for a bottle of port I knew to be there, and directing Thomas Mugridge in the preparation of the spare state- room.
Postmaster Mugridge observed, with the strong approval of those who heard him, that young Dutton was nobody's fool, though what especial wisdom Dutton had evinced in having his leg blown off was not clear.
Mugridge sat down on the raised threshold to the galley and went on with his knife-sharpening. I put the shovel away and calmly sat down on the coal-box facing him. He favoured me with a vicious stare. Still calmly, though my heart was going pitapat, I pulled out Louis's dirk and began to whet it on the stone.
Thomas Mugridge, so strangely and pertinaciously clinging to life, was soon limping about again and performing his double duties of cook and cabin-boy. Johnson and Leach were bullied and beaten as much as ever, and they looked for their lives to end with the end of the hunting season; while the rest of the crew lived the lives of dogs and were worked like dogs by their pitiless master.
Out of my experience with stewards on the Atlantic liners at the end of the voyage, I could have sworn he was waiting for his tip. From my fuller knowledge of the creature I now know that the posture was unconscious. An hereditary servility, no doubt, was responsible. "Mugridge, sir," he fawned, his effeminate features running into a greasy smile. "Thomas Mugridge, sir, an' at yer service."
In short, I'm going to play the hog myself, and not for one day, but for the rest of the season, if we're in luck." "And if we're not?" I queried. "Not to be considered," he laughed. "We simply must be in luck, or it's all up with us." He had the wheel at the time, and I went forward to my hospital in the forecastle, where lay the two crippled men, Nilson and Thomas Mugridge.
"Get your palm and needle and sew the beggar up. You'll find some old canvas in the sail-locker. Make it do." "What'll I put on his feet, sir?" the man asked, after the customary "Ay, ay, sir." "We'll see to that," Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voice in a call of "Cooky!" Thomas Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jack-in-the-box. "Go below and fill a sack with coal."
"Very probably," was Wolf Larsen's answer, as he turned partly away from me and cried out, "Cooky! Oh, Cooky!" The Cockney popped out of the galley. "Where's that boy? Tell him I want him." "Yes, sir;" and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down another companion-way near the wheel.
Not only does Thomas Mugridge continue to hate me, but he has discovered a new reason for hating me. It took me no little while to puzzle it out, but I finally discovered that it was because I was more luckily born than he "gentleman born," he put it. "And still no more dead men," I twitted Louis, when Smoke and Henderson, side by side, in friendly conversation, took their first exercise on deck.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking