“Ditto,” sang out the fat youth, looking up with a wide grin; for he was about as good-natured as he was ponderous.
“Giraffe Stedman.”
“More ditto,” answered the tall lad, with the long neck, and the quick movements, who was busying himself over the fire, being never so happy as when he could feed wood to the crackling blaze.
“Step Hen Bingham.”
“On deck,” replied the boy mentioned, who was busy with the supper arrangements.
“Davy Jones.”
“O. K.” came from the fellow who was walking on his hands at the moment, his waving feet being high in the air, where his head was supposed to appear; because Davy was a gymnast, and worked off his superfluous energy in doing all manner of queer stunts.
“Smithy.”
“Present,” and the speaker, a very natty chap, brushed off an imaginary insect from the sleeve of his coat; because it happened that Edmund Maurice Travers Smith, as he was known in his home circle, had been born with a horror for dirt: and it was taking his comrades a long time to bring him down to the ordinary level of a happy-go-lucky, care-free boy like themselves.
“Robert White Quail.”