“That you, Mr Jack, sir?” said the man.
“Can’t you see it is?” replied the lad shortly.
“Yes, sir, and sorry for you I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, sir, about the island. They’ve been a-cracking it up to us, and making believe as it was the loveliest place as ever was, and now we’ve got to it, why it’s all gammon.”
“Then you’ve seen it, Ned?”
“Seen it, sir? I wish I hadn’t. It’s a trick they’ve played on us because we’re what they call longshore folk. Makes me long for the shore, I can tell you. A jolly shame, sir.”
“It does look dreary, Ned.”
“Dreary aren’t the word for it, but you can’t gammon me. I know what it is; I’ve read about ’em. It’s one of them out-of-the-way stony places where they used to send convicks to. ‘Rubbish may be shot here’ spots. And a lot of the rubbish used to be shot there if they tried to escape. Oh, it is a dismal horror place. Give me the miserables as soon as I saw it, after spoiling my night’s rest for fear I shouldn’t wake up at daylight to see what it was like. I’ve seen it though, and I don’t want any more, thankye. Don’t want me, I suppose, sir?”
“No, Ned. I’m going back to bed.”