“No, I don’t regret being skipper on a canal boat ’stead of hordinary seaman banging ’round in a cruiser’s forecastle and target-practising at the ’Uns. It’s an awful life, sea-faring is, sir. A man wot is a man owes it to himself to marry and settle down.”
“You certainly are a domestic animal, skipper.”
He grinned. “Yes, sir. Why, the first time I sawr ’er she was a-standing behind the till in a sweets-shop, in Flushing, and a-crying ’er pretty eyes out.”
“Who was?”
“Blimey! my wife! I thort I ’ad told you, sir.”
“You’ve told me nothing.”
“It’s an awful life, sea-faring is, sir——”
“You’ve told me that already, but what about your wife?”
“Ow, yes, sir. She was a-standing behind the counter in a sweets-shop and a-crying ’er pretty eyes out, and I come in just off the ship with a ’unger for sweets so strong my tongue was fair ’anging out of my mouth. (You gets that way banging round in a cruiser’s forecastle, sir.)
“Sniff—sniff—sniff—— ‘What’ll ye ’ave, mynheer?’ she says to me.