“More am I, sir, but I’m precious bad all the same. Don’t s’pose any one’s bleeding, but they got it hard same as I did. Wood out here ain’t like wood at home. Oak’s hard enough, but iron-wood’s like what they call it.”
“Who is this?” said Mark, as, after gently letting Mr Russell’s head sink back, his hands encountered another face.
“I dunno, sir. It was every man for hisself, and I was thinking about Tom Fillot, AB, and no one else. What’s he feel like?”
“Like one of our men.”
“But is it a hugly one with very stiff whiskers? If so be it is, you may take your davy it’s Joe Dance.”
“How am I to know whether he’s ugly?” cried Mark, petulantly.
“By the feel, sir. Try his nose. Joe Dance’s nose hangs a bit over to starboard, and there’s a dent in it just about the end where he chipped it agin a shot case.”
“Oh, I can’t tell all that,” cried Mark—“Yes, his nose has a little dent in it, and his whiskers are stiff.”
“Then that’s Joe Dance, sir.”
“Avast there! Let my head alone, will yer?” came in a low, deep growl.