“Yes, it’s getting lighter fast,” cried Mr Denning. “But how rough the sea is!”
“Ay, sir, she be a bit tossy like,” said Bob; “but this here’s nothing to what it is on a rocky coast. Ah, that’s bad if you like.”
“But we’ve had an awful night, Bob.”
“Tidy, sir, tidy. Not so bad as it might ha’ been.”
“Oh, it couldn’t have been worse!” I cried.
“What? Not been worse, sir? Why, where’s your mainmas’ gone by the board, and your fore-mast cut off at the top-mast-head, and your mizzen splintered into matchwood? Why, my lad, this arn’t been nothing. And look yonder, there’s the sun a-coming out, leastwise it’s making the clouds look red-like. We’re coming out of it well. Why, you ought to be proud, Mr Dale, o’ belonging to such a ship as the Burgh Castle. She’s a clipper, if ever there was one built.”
“I am proud of her, Bob,” I said, “but I’m not proud of her crew.”
“Well, no, sir,” said Bob, rubbing his red nose, which looked wet and shiny now; “they arn’t turned out a werry good lot, but then arter all they might ha’ been worse. You see it’s just like having so much soup as the cook’s made for you, and all as good as can be, till the cook’s mate tilts the lamp aside by a-hitting it with his head, and a drop o’ hyle goes into the soup. That one drop o’ train-hyle spyles all the pot. See what I mean?”
“That Jarette is the drop of oil?”
“That’s it, sir, and a werry, werry rancid drop he be.”