The man nodded nervously in assent.
"That's bueno! Now shut your eyes, sonny, and take a siesta."
The boy's brown eyes glowed with a wealth of gratitude and a dog-like look of adoration as they rested upon Jack's stalwart figure; but the rolling-stone was a martinet of a doctor—not a word would he allow above a whisper in the foc's'le until the kid was asleep.
It was the cockney's wheel when the watch changed, and at four bells, six o'clock, he came forward, his face eloquent with news.
"H'I've found 'im out, byes, h'I've found 'im out!" he shouted incoherently to the group of men seated yarning on the fore-hatch and spare spars, and he pointed wildly at the rolling-stone.
"What's he done now?" rumbled half a dozen deep voices.
"Wyte, me bloomin' ole shellbacks, lemme tell the yarn."
"Well, pipe ahead; we ain't stoppin' ye," growled Red Bill.
"Jack," said the cockney, suddenly darting upon the rover—"Jack, me bloomin' lovy-duck, does you know w'y Black Dyvis wouldn't stan' up to yer?"
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," laughed Jack.