"You don't mean it?"
"Yes. I told him he wouldn't be a real sailor until he had some paint stuck under his hide."
"That's the sure thing, my lad, and I'm the salt that can give you the purtiest hashings you ever set eyes on. Where did you reckon you wanted the marks put?"
"I hadn't reckoned anything about it. I guess I don't want any of those hash marks, as you call them," Sam returned.
"What? Not want them? Of course you do."
Sam reflected a moment, then gave a reluctant consent.
"What kind of a tattoo would you suggest?"
"A pig's foot, by all means, matey. That's the latest and most fashionable decoration that a gentleman can wear. How'll you have it!"
"I'll take mine pickled, if it's all the same to you," answered Sam soberly.
The jackies roared.