"Cuss your Mr. B., you infernal collyoptera!" retorted the now thoroughly-roused flunkey. "My name is Boyldwyte! Yes, sir, Boyld—wyte. I want none of your cheek! Speak to me on duty, sir! Yes, sir!—on duty. I don't belong to your class of society." Having thus delivered himself, he stared hard at Thompson, and breathed defiantly, as much as to say, "I'm ready for you,—come on."
The coxswain-valet smiled, unhooked the half-door, walked into the pantry, and took a seat beside the ferocious one, who immediately turned his back upon him. When his anger had evaporated the steward demanded what the sailor required, and added, "Why didn't you tell me when you come in?"
"My dear Mister B., wot with your colly-wotshisnames and other blowings up, I haven't had a chance of getting a word in edgeways. Please don't use such teatotal long words; I ain't got a pocket jaxionaiary with me, you know."
"Did the captain give you any instructions for my guidance, Mr. Thompson?"
"Yes, Mr. B."
"What was they, Mr. Thompson?"
"Well, he says to me, says he, 'Jerry, that infernal fool of mine—meaning you—ain't worth him salt, ses he, and for two pins I'd sack him and take you in his place.'"
"The captain made use of that observation, did he, Mr. Thompson?"
"He did, Mister B."
"He were not speaking anamgretically, were he, Mr. Thompson?"