John Conroy Hutcheson

“ The skipper drew himself up to his full height on my telling this and turned round on Mr Fosset, his face blazing with passion.
“A ship in distress, a woman on board imploring our aid,” he exclaimed in keen, cold, cutting tones that pierced one like a knife, “and you passed her by without rendering any assistance,—a foreigner too, of all. We Englishmen, who pride ourselves on our humanity above all other nations. What will they think of us?” ”

“ No engines could stand it, with such a heavy sea on and the ship rolling and pitching all the time like a merry-go-round at Barnet Fair. The governor is no good; and, though Grummet or Links have their grip on the throttle valve all the while to check the steam, and I’ve every stoker and oiler on duty, the bearings are getting that heated that I’m afraid of the shaft breaking at any moment. Full speed, sir? Why, we can’t do it, sir, we can’t do it!”
“Nonsense, Stokes,” said the skipper good-humouredly. “You must do it, old fellow.” ”

“ Mr Spokeshave? Mr Spokeshave?”
No answer came this time, however, from my friend, Master “Conky,” though he had been ready enough just now with his aggravating “quite so.”
“I think, sir,” said I, “Mr Spokeshave has gone below to his tea.”
“Very likely,” replied the skipper drily; “he’s precious fond of his breadbasket, that young gentleman. I don’t think he’ll ever starve where there’s any grub knocking about. Fancy a fellow, calling himself a man, thinking of his belly at such a moment! Go, Haldane, and call him up again and tell him I want him.” ”