He'll raise a rough house if
we don't get a move on and keep our section up."
Caradoc came out of his muse, tossed his cigarette into the swirling
water a few feet below him. "Impudent chap!" he snapped.
Madden laughed. "His trade is to get work out of men and it requires
impudence."
Caradoc grunted something, perhaps an assent. The two fell briskly to
work and soon made an impression on the blank iron wall. At first the
American chatted of this and that, rehearsing his own aimless ramblings
as men will, but presently he observed that Smith was painting away and
paying no attention to his partner's chatter.
"What's the worry, old man?" queried Madden lightly. "'Fraid the
paint'll give out?"
"I presume they have sufficient paint," answered Smith stiffly, as he
flapped his brush across the bright head of a big rivet.
"Why--yes," agreed Madden, a little taken aback, "but you look like you
might be getting up a grouch at something--"
"About time to pull up, isn't it?" interrupted Smith.
The brusqueness in the speech grated on Madden, but they hauled up their
platform without further remarks on either side. The Englishman seemed
to work slower than the American, but somehow covered as much ground.
The coat of red paint had risen considerably on the dock when the
bosun's whistle gave a faint shrill from the deck.
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