"Charles Smith!"
"Vich Chawles is it?" demanded a stumpy individual; "is it I or Conkey Smith?"
"Tommy Sims!"
"Runned away," observed one of the boys.
"Charles Dunstable—oh! he's dead."
"Harry Tomlin!"
"Bolted at Singapore."
"Tom Clare! three letters for you, old man."
"Jerry Thompson! Jerry Thompson! here you are, a regular bunch of 'em. All the girls in Portsmouth must av bin awriting you, Jerry."
"Werry possible," coolly retorted the coxswain. "It's more than they'd do to you, old fetch-and-carry."