"You're a rum sailor-man," said Dan, "not to know the name of your own ship ten minutes together. Why, you've told us about four different names a'ready."
The sham seaman chuckled feebly.
"Why, I don't believe you're a sailor at all, mate," the woman remarked, still playfully. "You've just bin a-kiddin' of us fine!"
The chuckle persisted, and turned to a stupid grin. "Ha, ha! Ha, ha! Have it y'r own way." This with a clumsily stealthy grope at the breast pocket—a movement that the others had seen before, and remembered. "Have it y'r own way. But I say; I say, y'know"—suddenly serious—"you're all right, ain't you? Eh? All right, you know, eh? I s-say—I hope you're—orright?"
"Awright, mate? Course we are!" And Dan clapped him cordially on the shoulder.
"Awright, mate?" shouted the blind man, his white eye rolling and blinking horribly at the ceiling. "Right as ninepence! An' a 'a'penny over, damme!"
"We're awright," growled the broken-nosed man, thickly.
"We don't tell no secrets," said the woman.
"Thash all very well, but I was talkin' about the Juno, y'know. Was'n I talkin' about Juno?" A look of sleepy alarm was on the fair man's face as he turned his eyes from one to another.
"Ay, that's so," answered the fellow at his side. "Brig Juno in from Barbadoes."