“What is it thou, old son of Belial,” said Master Peasegood, sourly, for he had been awakened from a pleasant sleep.
“Ay, Wat Kilby it is.”
“I thought thee with thy master, far at sea—safe enough, for thou’lt be hanged some day, Wat Kilby, and never drowned.”
“Thou’rt a false prophet,” growled Wat Kilby.
“Thou’rt a villainous old unbeliever, worse than a Jew!” cried Master Peasegood, angrily.
“I wish all thy country flock were as good as Jews, parson.”
“I wish they were,” said Master Peasegood, angrily. “And now why art thou here?”
“We’re at anchor. Skipper’s ashore.”
“He was here an hour ago, man.”
“Eh? Was he then? I must get me back. Here, hold down thy hand; I’ve brought thee some tobacco. I know thou’rt converted, parson, and can smoke.”