“You keep your place, sir, and speak when you’re spoken to,” said Walters, sharply.
“Certeny, sir. Beg pardon, sir, of course. Here, you Neb Dumlow, and you Barney Blane,” cried the man to a couple of his fellows, who were busy tightening the tarpaulin over a boat which swung from the davits.
The two men, whose lower jaws were working ox-fashion as they ruminated over their tobacco, left off and faced round; the first addressed, a big, ugly fellow, with a terrific squint which made his eyes look as if they were trying to join each other under the Roman nose, held a tarry hand up to his ear and growled—
“What say, mate?”
“These here’s our two noo orficers, and you’ve got to be wery ’spectful when you speaks.”
“Look here, young man,” said Walters, haughtily, “I’ve been to sea before, and know a thing or two. If you give me any of your cheek I’ll report you to the first mate. Come on, Dale.”
He turned away, and the bluff-looking sailor winked at me solemnly as I followed, and muttered the words, “Oh my!”
“Nothing like keeping the sailors in their places,” continued Walters, “and—”
“Morning,” said a handsome, keen-looking man of about thirty.
“Morning, sir.”