“We must expend that; ‘no old on charge.’ Send it on shore to the cottage, and I shall want some pitch.”
“We’ve lots of that, your honour.”
“That will do, Mr Hurley; desire the sentry to tell my steward to come here.”
“Yes, your honour.” (Exit boatswain, and enter steward.)
This personage belonged to the party of marines, who had been drafted into the ship—for Captain Capperbar’s economical propensities would not allow him to hire a servant brought up to the situation, who would have demanded wages independent of the ship’s pay. Having been well drilled at barracks, he never answered any question put to him by an officer, without recovering himself from his usual “stand-at-ease” position—throwing shoulders back, his nose up in the air, his arms down his sides, and the palms of his hands flattened on his thighs. His replies were given with all the brevity that the question would admit, or rapid articulation on his own part would enable him to confer.
“Thomas, are the sugar and cocoa ready to go on shore?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t forget to send that letter to Mr Gibson for the ten dozen port and sherry.”
“No, sir.”
“When it comes on board, you’ll bring it on shore a dozen at a time, in the hair trunk.”