Nic Revel: A White Slave's Adventures in Alligator Land

“Late again, Nic,” said Captain Revel.
“Very sorry, father.”
“Yes, you always are ‘very sorry,’ sir. I never saw such a fellow to sleep. Why, when I was a lad of your age—let’s see, you’re just eighteen.”
“Yes, father, and very hungry,” said the young man, with a laugh and a glance at the breakfast-table.
“Always are very hungry. Why, when I was a lad of your age I didn’t lead such an easy-going life as you do. You’re spoiled, Nic, by an indulgent father.—Here, help me to some of that ham.—Had to keep my watch and turn up on deck at all hours; glad to eat weavilly biscuit.—Give me that brown bit.—Ah, I ought to have sent you to sea. Made a man of you. Heard the thunder, of course?”
“No, father. Was there a storm?”
“Storm—yes. Lightning as we used to have it in the East Indies, and the rain came down like a waterspout.”
“I didn’t hear anything of it, father.”
“No; you’d sleep through an earthquake, or a shipwreck, or— Why, I say, Nic, you’ll soon have a beard.”
“Oh, nonsense, father! Shall I cut you some bread?”
“But you will,” said the Captain, chuckling. “My word, how time goes! Only the other day you were an ugly little pup of a fellow, and I used to wipe your nose; and now you’re as big as I am—I mean as tall.”