"Well," continued the cockney, "the skipper 'e spins the bosun the yarn, an' h'I jest absorbs h'it likewise. Seems Cappen Summers told 'im 'bout it, an' 'e spots you, Jack, from them tattoo-marks o' yourn.
"Well, byes, this ere grinnin' cuckoo 'ere, 'om I'm pra'd to shipmytes wiv, 'e 'as words or somethin' wiv Mister Bucko Slocum, syme wye mebbe as 'e 'ad wi' Dyvis, an' they ups an' 'as it out.
"Well, they fit an' fit an' fit, Cappen Summers an' the 'ole bloomin' ship's comp'ny er-lookin' on. My crikey, but it must er been the 'ighest ole rig! Fer two hours they fit by ole man Summers' ticker, till they wos h'all blood an' rags. Then Jack, 'e up wiv 'is fist an' lets drive. Oh Lord! Weren't it er knock-out! That swot Slocum, 'e just flies back'ards, lands on 'is 'ead on the quarter-bitts, an' lays there, reglar broke up; didn't come to till nex' mornin'.
"Ole man Summers tho't 'e were killed, an' gives Jack 'is job on ther spot.
"That's w'y Dyvis weren't 'avin' none!" concluded the cockney solemnly.
"'Sthat true, Jack, 'sthat true?" shouted half a dozen voices.
"Better ask the old man," laughed the rover.
In a moment Jack was circled by a crowd of eager men, all bawling at once.
"Lord lummy, Jack, you must be a bruiser," called one.
"Did Black Davis know this, d'you suppose?" asked Curly.