“Who’s that gentleman in uniform?” said Sydney. “Eh? That one?” said Terry, looking in another direction. “Oh, that’s the purser. You’ll have to be very civil to him—ask him to dinner and that sort of thing.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t do that at first,” said Roylance, as they descended. “Ask him to have a glass of grog with you.”
“Yes,” said Terry. “Get to the dinner by and by. Pray how old are you?”
“Between sixteen and seventeen,” replied Sydney, who writhed under his companion’s supercilious ways, but was determined to make friends if he could.
“Are you though?” said Roylance. “Fine boy for his age; eh, Mike?”
“Very. Mind your head, youngster. We’re going to have all this properly lighted now, I suppose. Our last captain did not give much thought to the ’tween decks. By the way, the young gentlemen of our mess are a bit particular. He ought to show to the best advantage, eh, Roy, and make a good impression.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Perhaps,” continued Terry, turning to Syd, “you’d like to see the ship’s barber and have a shave before we go in.”
“No, thank you,” said Syd, laughing, “I don’t shave.”
“Remarkable,” said Roylance.