“Weak? not you, sir. Feels a bit down, but you’ll soon forget that. I wouldn’t try to bring it on again, sir,” said Barney, watching his young master all the while.
“Bring it on? No,” cried Sydney. “I tell you I hate fighting. I don’t like being hurt.”
“Course not, sir.”
“And I don’t like hurting any one.”
“Well, sir, strikes me that’s foolish, ’cause there’s no harm in hurtin’ a thing like him. Do him good, I say. You see, Master Syd, there’s young gents as grows into good skippers, and there’s young gents as grows into tyrants, and worries the men till they mutinies, and there’s hangings and court-martials—leastwise, court-martials comes first. Now, Mr Terry, sir, unless he’s tamed down and taught better, ’s one o’ the sort as makes bad skippers, and the more he’s licked the better he’ll be.”
“I shall never like him,” said Syd, whose spoon was scraping the bottom of the basin now.
“No, sir; I s’pose not,” said Barney, with a dry grin beginning to spread over his countenance. “Nobody could; but I dare say his mother thinks he’s a werry nyste boy, and kisses and cuddles him, and calls him dear.”
“Yes, I suppose so, Barney.”
“And a pretty dear too; eh, Master Syd?”
“Yes, Barney. What are you laughing at?”