“Going to do, Master Syd?—burn it; you may if you like. It’s done it’s dooty, and done it well. I asks your honours, both on you—aren’t that wirtoo in a bit o’ rope? See what it’s made of him. Nothing like a bit o’ rope’s-end, neatly seized with a bit o’ twine.”
“Ah, well, you’ve a right to your opinion, Strake,” said the captain. “There, you can take him back home. I dare say we can manage to get him entered in the same ship as my son.”
“And if he’s going to do the right thing now,” said Sir Thomas, “I’ll pay for his outfit too.”
“Thank, your honour; thank, your honour!” cried Barney.
“Oh!”
This last was from Pan, who had received a side kick from his father’s shoe.
“Then why don’t yer touch yer hat to the admiral and say thankye too, you swab?” growled Barney, in a deep, hoarse whisper.
“There,” said the captain, “you can go now.”
“Long life to both your honours,” cried Barney. “Come, Pan, my lad, get home; you dunno it, but your fortune’s made.”
“Well, Syd, are you satisfied?” said the captain, as soon as they were alone.