“One o’ them things as yer looks through into a drop a’ water and sees as what yer drinks is all alive.”
“Not you,” said Smith, contemptuously; “what you wants is plenty more water in big tanks in our hold, and if I was Mr Rimmer, cap’en of this here ship, I should make some, and keep ’em full.”
“What for? Swimmin’ baths?”
“Swimmin’ great-grandmothers,” growled Smith, contemptuously. “No, my lad, I’ve got a sort o’ sentiment as one o’ these days the niggers’ll come and catch us on the hop, and if so be as they do, and we keep ’em from gettin’ in here, do you know what it’ll be?”
“Stickin’ knives and harrers in us, if they can.”
“No,” said Smith, laying his hand upon his companion’s shoulder and placing his lips to his ear, with the result that Wriggs started away with his face looking of an unpleasant clay colour.
“Think so, mate?” he gasped.
“Ay, that I do, Billy. They will as sure as a gun.” Oddly enough, just about the same time as the two sailors were holding this conversation, a chat was going on in the cabin respecting the lugger and how to get her launched. Like Smith, the mate seemed to be suffering from a “sentiment,” and he was talking very seriously.
“I did not see it before,” he said, “but it all shows what noodles we are when we think ourselves most clever.”
“Interpret,” said Panton; “your words are too obscure.”