Corroboc eyed the arrival quizzically. “Now what be
your objection, Macreeg?”
The old dog looked over at Jon-Tom. “I don’t like it, sir.
Better to keep this one swabbing the decks.”
Corroboc kicked out with his wooden leg. It caught the
sailor’s crutch and sent him stumbling in pursuit of new
support, only to land sprawling on his rump, accompanied
by the derisive laughter of his fellow sailors.
“Har, where be your sense of refinement, Macreeg?
Where be your feeling for culture?’ *
Neither perturbed nor intimidated, the old sailor slowly
climbed back to his feet, stretching to his full four and a
half feet of height.
“I just don’t trust him, Cap’n. I don’t like the look of
him and I don’t like his manner.”
“Well, I be not in love with his naked features either,
Mister Macreeg, but they don’t upset me liver. As for his
manner”—he threw Jon-Tom one of his disconcertingly
penetrating glances—”what of your manner, man?”
“Anything you say, Captain sir,” replied Jon-Tom as he
dropped his eyes toward the deck.
The parrot held the stare a moment longer. “Har, that be
adequate. Not quite servile enough yet, but that will come
with time. You see?” He looked toward the old sailor.
“There be nothing wrong in this. Music cannot harm us.
Can it, tall man? Because if I were to think for one instant
that you were trying to pull something peculiar on me…”
“I’m just a wandering minstrel, sir,” Jon-Tom explained
quickly. “All I want is a chance to practice the profession
for which I was trained.”
“Har, and to save your fragile skin.” Corroboc grunted.