"Oh, Lord!" he couldn't help groaning.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, Mr. Job, nothing." The fact was, Jacka had smeared a dollop of honey on that very gun-carriage to keep the wasps off him while he worked. The sweet-standings, you see, always drew a swarm of wasps on feast-days, and the old man never could abide them since his accident with the bee-skip.
Mr. Job sat there with his mouth screwed up, eyeing the whole length of the lugger.
"I'd like to know why you were hammering out that tinplate?" said he.
"I can see with my own eyes you've been knocking dents in the deck; but
I s'pose that wasn't your only object."
"I reckoned to tack it over this here hole in the bulwarks where the tide swung her up against the quay-end." Captain Jacka showed him the place.
"I'd have let you have a fresh plank if you'd only reported the damage in time."
"Oh," said Jacka, "a scrap of tin will answer just as well—every bit."
"I can't think, Captain Tackabird, how it comes that you've no more regard for appearances. Just look at the Unity, for instance, and how young Hewitt keeps her."
"Born different, I suppose."