“Yes, father.”
“Then just you recollect. If the young skipper feels wicious, he’s a right to chuck apples. Why, it’s rank mutiny hitting him again.”
“Hit me first,” grumbled the boy.
“Ay, and I’ll hit you first. Why, if I’d been board ship again, instead of being a pensioner and keeping this here garden in order for the skipper, I should have put my pipe to my mouth, and—What say, Master Syd?”
“Don’t say any more about it. I’d no business to hit Pan, and I’m sorry I did now.”
“Well, sir, I don’t know ’bout not having no business, ’cause you see you’re the skipper’s son, and nothing does a boy so much good as a leathering; but if you’re sorry for it, there’s an end on it. Pan-a-mar, my lad, beg Master Sydney’s pardon.”
“He hit me first,” grumbled the boy.
“Do you want me to give you a good rope’s-ending, my sonny?” growled the man; “’cause if you do, just you say that ’ere agen.”
The red-faced boy uttered a smothered growl, and was silent.
“Too young to understand discipline yet, Master Sydney,” said the man. “And so you felt wicious, did you? What about?”