He now certainly seemed to be making a comparison between me and something he was reading—summing me up, as it were—and I felt precious uncomfortable, I can tell you.
All at once he spoke.
“It’s a chilly evening, sir.”
“Yes,” I said.
“A sailor, I think?”
There was no good denying that. A sailor looks like a sailor, and nothing else.
“Yes,” I said, slowly.
“A fine profession, sir!” said he; “a noble profession. Shiver my timbers!”
Now, you know, we don’t shiver our timbers in reality; and if we did, we shouldn’t shiver them in the tone of voice the blue-cheeked man shivered his, and I couldn’t resist a broad grin, though I still felt uncomfortable.
“I’ve no objection, I’m sure,” said I, “if you have none.”