“Was you wanting a hand, mister?”
The red-faced man looked at him consideringly.
“A hand? A s’rimp, you mean!” He guffawed slapping his hands on his fat thighs, a man well pleased with his own joke.
“Ah con do a mon’s work, though,” the youngster insisted.
“Ye can, can ye? Can ye steer.”
“Aye, Ah con that.”
“Can ye reef an’ furl, splice a rope-yarn, peel potatoes and cook the cabin dinner of a Sunday?”
“Ah con that.”
The mate roared.
“Sort of a admirayble bright ’un, I can see,” he said. “Well, I tell you what. Here’s the skipper comin’ down the wharf. We’ll see what he says.”