“But I can’t, sir,” cried Smith, in a whimpering tone. “If I’d been ashore somewhere and met mates, and we’d been standing treat to one another, I wouldn’t keer, but I’m sober as a hundred judges, that I am.”
“Will you be silent, man? I want to think,” said Panton, as he rocked himself to and fro.
“Yes, sir, d’reckly, sir, but don’t you go thinking that of a man. I know I can’t stand straight, for all the bones has gone out of my legs, and soon as I move I go wobble-wobble like cold glue.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I’m unsteady, too,” said Panton impatiently.
“But is it fits, sir? And do they take you like that?”
“No, no, my man, I suppose it’s the gas.”
“Gas, sir,” cried Smith, looking round stupidly. “What’s it been escaping again? Gammon, sir: they aren’t got no gas out here. I say, Billy Wriggs, don’t make a hexibition of yourself. Keep quiet, will yer?”
“I can’t, mate. It’s a rum ’un, it is. What have the guvnors been givin’ of us to drink?”
“I d’know, Billy. But do stand still.”
“I can’t, mate, my legs will keep going and gettin’ tangle up like one along o’ the other, and knocking themselves together.”