Bob gave the ensign a comical look.
“Why Billy Mustard says—and this here’s a fack—as the smell o’ them doorings.”
“Durians, Dick.”
“All right, sir,” said the old sailor; “that don’t make ’em smell a bit better—the smell o’ them things knocked him slap off his feet.”
The men laughed, and old Dick went on—
“Everything about the place was as ontidy as a bilge hole; and when our ambassadors—”
“Our what?” said Bob.
“Well, them as carried the despatches, sir—got close up, they was told to wait because the sultan was asleep. When seeing as a reg’lar party of the Malays, every man with his bit of a toasting fork by his side, come round to stare at ’em, Sergeant Lund he says to himself, ‘Lor’! what a pity it is as I haven’t got Private Tomkins, or Private Binns, or two or three more nice smart, handsome chaps o’ that kind with me, instead of such a scuffy couple o’ fellows as Sim and Mustard.’”
Here, of course, there was a roar of laughter, for Privates Tomkins and Binns were amongst the listeners.
“Come away,” said Tom Long, frowning. “I don’t like mixing with our men.”