“That’s done it tidy,” cried the big sailor; “and that’s the beauty of having your orficer with yer to show yer what to do.”
“None of your banter, Tom,” cried the midshipman sternly.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, in protest. “’Twarn’t done for that. I meant it honest, sir. I shouldn’t never have thought on it.”
“All right,” said Murray, smiling in the broad frank face. “Why, Tom, it’s a treat to be with you again.”
“Is it, sir?” cried the man.
“That it is, Tom.”
“But you don’t mean it, sir. I say, ain’t that what you called banter?”
“Banter? No, Tom; I’m only too glad to get back to you. But how are you, Tom? Haven’t you got hurt over these tussles?”
“Hurt, sir?” said the man, beginning to feel himself over. “I dunno, sir. Bit sore like just there, and my shoulder’s just a shade stiff.”
“Yes, and there’s some paint off your nose, Tommy,” said the boatswain, chuckling.