“Which? What? Wheer?”
“Yonder, something fuzzy-like coming along yonder.”
“Niggers,” whispered back Wriggs. “You can see their heads with the hair standing out like a mop. But say, Tommy, what’s that up yonder again the sky?”
“Nothin’ as I knows on.”
“Not there, stoopid: yonder. If that there ain’t the wane on the top of our mast sticking up out of a hindful o’ fog, I’m a Dutchman.”
“Talking again?” said Oliver, angrily.
“Yes, sir, look!” whispered Smith. “Yonder’s the brig.”
“Can’t be that way, my man.”
“But it is, sir, just under that bit o’ fog. See the little weather-cock thing on the mast?”
“Of course! Bravo! Found.”