“Bah!”
“What, won’t that do?”
“Do? No! There—like a dream.”
“Brayvo! Werry pretty, as Sam Weller said. Oh, here’s Tommy May—Here, Tom, what do you think of the weather?” said the lad, addressing a bluff-looking seaman.
“Weather, sir?” said the man, screwing up his face till it was one maze of wrinkles. “Beg pardon, sir, but did you mean that as one of your jokes, sir, or was it a conundydrum?”
“Oh, don’t ask questions, Tom, but just tell us plainly what you think of the weather.”
“Nothing, sir; it’s too hot to think,” replied the man.
“Quite right, May,” said the other midshipman. “Don’t bother the poor fellow, Murray. Here, May, what do you fellows before the mast think about the slavers?”
“Slippery as the mud of the river banks, sir.”
“Good,” said Murray. “Well spoken, Tom. But do you think there are any about here?”