“What’s the matter with him, Andra?”
“She’s making up a lang story spout ta cook. She’s been retty to fecht, and ta cook said she’d ding her het again’ ta galley if she tidn’t pick ta goose.”
“Ay, but she’ll mak’ my ploot poil pefore she’s tone,” cried Watty fiercely, and scattering a handful of feathers so that some of them and the down flew on to Steve.
“Make your ploot poil?” cried Steve, laughing.
“Ay; and it poils now!” cried Watty, scattering some more feathers purposely, so that they should adhere to his trousers.
“There, I told you he was singing, Andra. His ploot poils, and he was singing like a kettle.”
“My mither sent me to sea to learn to pe a sailor, and ta skipper’s made me ta cook’s poy!” cried Watty vehemently.
“Then you shouldn’t have been such a coward, Watty. There, don’t be in a temper, and I’ll speak to the captain to let you come back to the other duties.”
“Hey, put she’s a puir feckless potie, and dinna ken the when she’s well off. She wishes ta captain wad pit her in ta galley, to get ta fairst wee tasties of all ta gravies and good things ta cook potie mak’s.”
“But he’s tired of it now, Andra. I say, Watty, look here; you’re smothering me with that fluff!”