“Course it would. You see they allus has the right tackle for everything, and a proper pocket or case to keep it in. Look at Mr Panton there, with that there young double-barrelled spy-glass of his’n.”
“Ay, they’ve each got one-sidy sort o’ little barnacle things as they looks through to make bits o’ stone and hinsecks seem big.”
“Now, we wants to wash our hands, don’t us?”
“Ay, we do, matey,” said Smith, raising his to his nose.
“Mine smell a bit snakey and sarpentine, I must say.”
“Steam or smoke?” said Drew.
“Both, I think,” replied Panton, closing his glass.
“Then the savages has got the pot on and it’s cooking,” whispered Smith. “I hope it don’t mean a mate.”
“Whatcher talking in that there Irish Paddy way?” grumbled Wriggs. “Can’t you say meat?”
“Course I can, old mighty clever, when I wants to. I said mate.”