“I had them done at a fair.”
“And,” we asked breathlessly, “what was the ship?”
“Two shillin’s,” he replied, “and I never regretted it. Money well spent.”
“Was she your ship?”
“Mine?” said the god.
“Was she the ship you were in when you were a sailor?”
“Me?” said Walter. “I aint never been a sailor.”
The blow was crushing. We retired hurt, amazed, incredulous.
One day we tried the remaining arm, the one with S.M., the heart, and the anchor emblazoned on it.
“What does S.M. mean?”