“No, no, I hope and pray not,” said Oliver.
“That’s right, sir. I don’t believe he is. Stoopid chuckle brain sort o’ chap in some things; and talk about a bull being obstinit, why, it would take a hundred bulls biled down to produce enough obst’nacy to make one Billy Wriggs. He wouldn’t get drowned; I’ve known him tumble out o’ the rigging over and over, and be upset out of a boat, but he’s only picked his self up and clambered in again, and been hauled into the boat when he was upset. While one day when he were washed overboard—and I thought he had gone that time, for you couldn’t ha’ lowered a boat in such a sea—I’m blessed if another big wave didn’t come and wash him back again, landing him over the poop so wet as you might ha’ wrung him out wonderful clean, and if he’d only had a week’s beard off, he’d ha’ looked quite the gentleman.”
“Poor fellow, we must save him somehow.”
“Tchah! Don’t you be down-hearted, sir, you see if he don’t turn up all right again. Reg’lar bad shillin’ Billy is. Why, you see how he went on when he went up the mountain and into holes and over ’em and into hot water. He allus comes out square. He can’t help it. No savage couldn’t kill Billy no matter what he did, and as for this here game—oh, he’ll be all right.”
“I hope so, Smith,” said Oliver, with a sigh.
“Well, sir, it don’t sound as if yer did. You spoke in a tone o’ woice as seemed to say I hope he’s jolly well drowned.”
“I can’t help feeling low-spirited, Smith.”
“Course you can’t, sir, but you just cheer up and I’ll try and tell you a yarn o’ some kind.”
“No, no: not now.”
“But I feel as if I’d like to, sir, a reg’lar good out an’ outer—a stiff ’un, cause just when I got to the biggest whopper in it, I should expect to hear Billy behind my back in that solemn and serus woice of his a-saying, ‘Speak the truth, Tommy, speak the truth.’”