“No,” said Mrs Ruth Marion, his little thin acid wife. “Overboard again, and he’s dripping all over the place. It isn’t long since he had those clothes.”
“Six months,” said the old purser, sending a couple of jets of tobacco smoke from his nostrils at once.
“Yes; and what with his growing so horribly, and the common stuff they sell for cloth now, shrinking so shamefully, he’s always wanting clothes.”
“Oh, these will last a long time yet, aunt!” said Will.
“No, they will not last a long time yet, Will!” cried the little lady, with her face all trouble wrinkles.
“Will,” said the old man, stopping to say pup, pup, pup, pup, pup, pup, as he emitted half a dozen tiny puffs of smoke, waving his pipe stem the while; “mind what your aunt says and you’ll never repent.”
“But he don’t mind a word I say,” cried the little woman, wringing her hands. “Wringing wet! just look at him!”
“Been fishing, my lass; and they brought home a fair haul,” said the purser, throwing back his head, and shooting smoke at a fly on the ceiling.
“What’s the use of his bringing home fair hauls if he destroys his clothes as he does; and the holes he makes in his stockings are shameful.”
“Can’t help getting wet at sea,” said the ex-purser, solemnly spreading a good mouthful of smoke in a semicircle. “Water’s wet, specially salt-water. Here, you, sir! how dare you make holes in your stockings for your aunt to mend? I don’t believe your father ever dared to do such a thing in his life.”