"An' what's the aim in life o' these here lashin's?"
"Ter keep the bloomin' water out, er course," jerked out the cockney, as he struggled with a sea-boot.
"Where's that 'ere sufferin', consumption-stricken gent, Studpoker Bob, all this time?" asked old Ben, looking round the foc's'le.
"He's warmin' an' repa'rin' himself in the galley, and havin' a chin-chin with Lung," returned Jim.
"And he calls himself an American citizen," grunted Ben, in great disgust. "I'd sooner exchange views with a pra'rie-dog or a gopher than one o' them heathens from the Orient. They're all right to wash clothes or toss flapjacks or sech-like plays, but to shake dice with 'em—no, sirree, that's what I calls plumb degradin'."
As he spoke the thundering voice of the bosun was heard.
"A-l-l h-a-n-d-s s-h-o-r-t-e-n s-a-i-l!"
Sure enough it was about time, for the wind was shrieking through the rigging with more strength every minute, and at every plunge the heavily pressed vessel sent the sprays right over her. The lee-scuppers were full, and a succession of dollops poured over the weather rail.