“Are you sure you are taking me now?” asked David, dryly.
“Why not, Mr. David?” retorted Eve, from his shoulder. “Didn't I hear you tell how you took the Combermere out of harbor, and how you brought her into port; she didn't take you out and bring you home, eh?”
“Had me there, though.”
“Yes; and, what is more, you are not skipper of the Combermere yet, and never will be; but I am skipper of you.”
“Ashore—not a doubt of it,” said David, with cool indifference. He despised terrestrial distinction, courting only such as was marine.
“Then I command you to let me down this instant. Do you hear, crew!”
“No,” objected David; “if I put you overboard you can't command the vessel, and ten to one if the craft does not founder for want of seawomanship on the quarterdeck. However,” added he, in a relenting tone, “wait till we get to that puddle shining on ahead, and then I'll disembark you.”
“No, David, do let me down, that's a good soul. I am tired,” added she, peevishly.
“Tired! of what?”
“Of doing nothing, stupid; there, let me down, dear; won't you, darling! then take that, love” (a box of the ear).