“Wouldn’t do to set me that job, sir,” said Smith.
“Why not? You could soon learn.”
“’Cause I got a bad habit, sir.”
“Lots!” said Wriggs, laconically.
“Here, don’t you be so jolly fond o’ running down your messmate, Bill. ’Course I’ve got lots a’ bad habits—everybody has—don’t s’pose I got more more nor you, mate.”
“Dessay not, Tommy,” said Wriggs, with a chuckle.
“What I meant was as I’ve got a bad habit a’ poppin’ my fingers in my mouth every now and then, when I’m doin’ anythin’, so as to get a better hold. Some chaps spit in their hands—Billy here does, sir.”
“Ay, mate, that’s a true word,” growled Wriggs.
“Well, that’s a deal nastier than just wettin’ the tips o’ your fingers, ain’t it? Would it hurt me if I did, sir?”
“Most likely be very dangerous,” said Oliver, as he busily tucked some cotton wool into the cavities of the eyes, and then into the empty skull.