"Bedad thin," commented Pat, "Bob's sick with consumption, but the disaise ain't after makin' him ill at all."
"The man's as strong and well as you or I," exclaimed Curly hotly, poking his head out of his bunk.
"I ain't sayin' but that if Studpoker Bob's got consumption prowlin' around him, it ain't been an' staked out its claim an' started in to work diggin' out his innards by now, after the energy the bosun displays on him," went on Ben.
"And that ain't no bluff, neither. The bosun shore puts a heap o' zest into the game, an' after bein' upheaved an' jumped on that-away, I reckons Bob don't get so much bliss as he did," agreed Broncho.
At this moment, Jim, who had just been to strike one bell, dived in glistening with wet.
"It's blowin' up hard; it'll be 'All hands to the crojjick' at eight bells, the bosun says," he announced.
"What's that, sonny? All hands at eight bells? An' it's our first watch below! Hell take the sea, anyhow," growled old Ben.
"We're in for a night of it. Listen to the wind," observed Curly.
There was a general rush for oilskins and rubbers.
"You'll want lashings on your oilskins to-night, Broncho," remarked Jack, as he knotted a deep-sea lashing round his waist.