A turn of the steering shut her from my sight, and I turned to go below.
"Fine ships! Fine ships—t' look aat!"
The Mate of the steamer, relieved from duty, had stopped at my side, sociable. He would be a Skye-man by the talk of him. It was good to hear the old speech again.
"Aye! she's a fine ship."
"Haf you been th' voyage in her? Been long away?"
"Oh yes! Sixteen months this trip!"
"Saxteen munss! Ma grasshius! Y'll haf a fine pey oot o' her?"
"Not a cent! Owing, indeed; but my time'll be out in a week, an I'll get my indentures."
"Oh, yiss! Oh, yiss! A bressbounder, eh!" Then he gave a half-laugh, and muttered the old formula about "the man who would go to sea for pleasure, going to hell for a pastime!"
"Whatna voyage did ye haf, now?" he asked, after filling a pipe with good 'golden bar,' that made me empty the bowl of mine, noisily.