“Open the window, Bob; I’m half-stifled.”
“So’m I, my lad. Here, what’s the matter? What are you doing here?”
“No,” I said; “what are you doing here in the cabin, Bob?”
“I arn’t in the cabin, my lad, and you arn’t in the cabin, for this arn’t in it, and—Here, I say, what’s up?”
“I don’t know,” I said peevishly, “but it’s so hot I can’t bear it; do open something.”
“Blest if I— Look here, my lad— There arn’t anything to open anywheres, and my head won’t go. Would you mind telling me where the sky-light is, for I s’pose I had too much grog last night like a fool, and I arn’t werry clear in the head.”
“I don’t know, I can’t tell, Bob. It’s all a puzzle.”
“And it’s so plaguey dark, my lad. Wait a bit and I’ll feel round with my fingers, for eyes aren’t no good here.”
“Well,” I said, for there was a good deal of rustling, “what can you feel?”
“Chesties and casks, my lad, and we’re a-lying on ’em—leastwise I am. What are we two a-lying on chesties and casks for?”