“What’s going on here?” I wanted to know. Tony swung away at the sound of my voice and bounced up and down before me.
“Mr. Noyes, you gotta help me, you gotta! They steal my galley; they snoop all over; they won’t let me work. How can I cook without I get in? Get ’em out, Mr. Noyes, kill ’em, lock ’em in irons. Oh, Santa Maria, I’ll kill ’em so dead! Alla my help’s in there and I ain’t telling ’em what to do! They’ll spoil the dinner. Get away from my galley, you bums, or I’ll make soup outa you both! Spoil my dinner, I feed you to pigs! Mr. Noyes, you gotta get ’em out.”
Stan grinned at me and winked, which was my first indication that he had a sense of humor of some kind. “Tony’s a little overenthusiastic, Sammy. Don’t mind him.” He caught one of the little man’s flailing fists and dre
