“Who’s to pour it right when yer keeps on talking?” said Pan, as he trickled the water into his father’s mouth.
“Ah, you’re a nice sarcy one now I’m down, Pan-y-mar,” said Stoke, after a long refreshing draught. “But you may be trustful, I’ve got a good memory for rope’s-ends, and you shall have it warmly as soon as I’m well.”
“Then I won’t stop and nuss yer,” said Pan, drawing back.
“You just come on, will yer, yer ungrateful swab.”
“Shan’t,” said Pan.
“What! Do you know this here arn’t the skipper’s garden, and you and me only gardeners, but ’board ship—leastwise it’s all the same—and I’m your orficer?”
“You arn’t a orficer now,” said Pan, grinning. “You’re only a wounded man.”
“Come here.”
“Shan’t!”
“Pan-y-mar, come here.”