“Yes, they looked good water-tighters,” said Bigley quietly, and he seemed now to have settled down into his regular old fashion, while Bob Chowne was getting saucy.
“And then his hands! Did you see his hands?” continued Bob. “I thought at first I could not eat the bread and butter he had touched. I don’t believe he ever washes them.”
“Why, he had quite small brown hands,” said Bigley. “Mine are ever so much larger.”
“Yes, but how dirty they were!”
“It was only tar,” said Bigley. “He has been hauling new ropes. Look, some came off on my hand when he had hold of it.”
“I don’t care, I say it was dirt,” said Bob obstinately. “He’s a Frenchman, and Frenchmen are all alike—nasty, dirty-looking beggars.”
“Well, I thought as he brought us down in the cabin here, and gave us that warm drink and the bread and butter, what a pity it was that French and English should ever fight and kill one another.”
“Yah! Hark at him, Sep Duncan,” cried Bob. “There’s a sentimental, unnatural chap. What do you say?”
“Oh, I only say what a difference there is between Bob Chowne now and Bob Chowne when he lay down in the bottom of the boat last night, and howled when old Big made him get up and row.”
“You want me to hit you, Sep Duncan?”