"That's so," said Martin, patting his yard-stick, "Right-o!"
"Third Sunday we 'ad th' trides, runnin' south; lawst Sunday wos fourth Sunday hout, an' this 'ere's Friday—'peasoup-dye,' ain't it? 'Ow d'ye mike a month o' that? 'Dead 'oss' ain't up till t'morrer, I reckon!"
"Well, ye reckons wrong, bo'sun! Ye ain't a-countin' of th' day wot we lay at anchor at th' Tail o' th' Bank!"
"Blimy, no! I'd forgotten that dye!"
"No! An' I tell ye th' 'dead 'orse' is hup, right enuff. I don't make no mistake in my log.... Look at 'ere," pointing to a cross-cut at the head of his stick. "That's the dye wot we lay at anchor—w'en you an' me an' the rest ov us wos proper drunk. 'Ere we starts away," turning to another side; "them up strokes is 'ead win's, an' them downs is fair; 'ere's where we got that blow hoff th' Weste'n Isles," putting his finger-nail into a deep cleft; "that time we carries away th' topmas' stays'l sheet; an' 'ere's th' trade win's wot we're 'avin' now! ... All k'rect, I tell ye. Ain't no mistakes 'ere, sons!" He put the stick aside the better to fill his pipe.
"Vat yo' calls dem holes in de top, Martin, zoone? Dot vass sometings, aind't id?"
Vootgert, the Belgian, picked the stick up, turning it over carelessly.
Martin snatched it away.
"A course it's 'sometings,' ye Flemish 'og! If ye wants to know pertiklar, them 'oles is two p'un' o' tebaccer wot I had sence I come aboard. Don't allow no Ol' Man t' do me in the bloomin' hye w'en it comes t' tottin' th' bill! ... I'll watch it! I keeps a good tally ov wot I gets, tho' I can't read nor write like them young 'know-alls' over there" (Martin had no love for 'brassbounders'), "them wot orter be aft in their proper place, an' not sittin' 'ere, chinnin' wi' th' sailormen!"
"Who's chinnin'?" said Jones, Martin's particular enemy. "Ain't said a word! Not but what I wanted to ... sittin' here, listenin' to a lot of bally rot about ye'r dead horses an' logs an' that!"