“‘Fourteen tockin, seventeen toul.’—You do know how to spell to a T.”
“Massa Courtenay, doctor not write same way you write.”
“Well, Mr Billy.”
“You not write same way me—ebery gentleman write different hand. Now, if ebery gentleman write his own way, why not ebery gentleman spell his own way? Dat my way to spell, sar,” continued Billy, very much affronted.
“I can’t argue with you now, Mr Billy—there’s one bell after four striking, and I have hardly had a glass of wine, from your bothering me. Upon my soul, its excessively annoying.”
“One bell, Mr Courtenay!” cried Jerry at the gun-room door; “Mr Price will thank you to relieve him.”
“I say, Mr Prose,” continued Jerry, as he passed through the steerage to return on deck, “I’ll just trouble you to hand your carcase up as soon as convenient.”
“Directly, Jerry,—I—will—but my tea—is so hot.”
“Well, then leave it, and I’ll drink it for you,” replied Jerry, ascending the ladder.
“Well, Mr G—, did you tell Mr Courtenay?” inquired Price.