“I say, Frank, look here,” cried the other; “can’t you say downright what you have to say, without prosing about like the jolly old preface to an uninteresting book?”
“No, dear boy,” replied the young fellow addressed; “I can’t really. It’s the weather.”
“Hang the weather!” cried the other petulantly.
“Not to be done, dear boy. To hang calls for a rope and the yard-arm, and there’s nothing tangible about the weather. You should say—that is, if you wish to be ungentlemanly and use language unbecoming to an officer in His Majesty’s service—Blow the weather!”
“Oh, bosh, bosh, bosh! You will not be satisfied till I’ve kicked you, Frank.”
“Oh, don’t—pray don’t, my dear fellow, because you will force me to kick you again, and it would make me so hot. But I say, wasn’t I going to tell you something about old Anderson and the skipper?”
“No—yes!—There, I don’t know. Well, what was it?”
“Nothing,” said Frank Murray, yawning. “Oh, dear me, how sleepy I am!”
“Well, of all the aggravating—”
“That’s right: go on. Say it,” said Murray. “I don’t know what you were going to call me, dear boy, but I’m sure it would be correct. That’s just what I am. Pray go on. I’m too hot to hit back.”