"Yes, yes, quite so. All right."
"You're a cattleman."
"Yes, yes. Have it that way, thin."
"You're a dam' cattleman."
Mike stretched his head up as does one who wears a tall collar when the collar's edge annoys his neck.
"Now, now," he said. "Now, now! You'll be after annoying me."
"A dam' cattleman," reiterated Michael, "with one shirt!"
"Quite so. Have it your own way."
"One shirt—a dirty shirt."
Mike unloosened his right hand from the taffrail that it was again gripping, threw forward his left shoulder, and then, instead of hitting, he wrung his hands, held them high, rubbed the palms together in a kind of anguish, smashed the butt of his right hand into the palm of his left, and "Michael," he said, "you're drunk. Ye'd better go below. Have a sleep, have a sleep."