“What for? Drink, my hearty. What’s mud but dust o’ the earth made wet? Well, we’re all made o’ the dust o’ the earth, ain’t we, and consequently wet dust’s just the stuff to make yer grow strong again. Deal better than salt junk and pickled pig and biscuit, I can tell yer. There, tip it up. It’s wonderful filling at the price.”
The man laughed, and emptied the baler.
“’Tarn’t bad, mate,” he said, as he leaned over the side to refill the tin.
“Bad? I should think not. I feel like a noo man.”
“And you looks it, too, matey,” said the other grinning. “I shouldn’t ha’ knowed you with that boiled duff fizz-mahogany o’ yourn. How much bigger’s it going to get?”
“Well, of all the pot calling kettle black as ever I knowed on,” said Tom Fillot, “that’s about the rummest. Why, your head’s all o’ one side like an ugly turmut, and your eyes is on’y two slits.”
“We ain’t none on us got much to boast on, ’cept our orficer,” said Dick Bannock. “Pass that there tin.”
“To be sure,” said Tom Fillot, “and handsome is as handsome does. Might be a deal worse off, mates. Drink away; the mud won’t hurt us. We’re in the shade and got plenty o’ water. Different to being right out at sea in a calm, eh, Mr Vandean, sir?”
“Don’t talk about it, my lad,” said Mark. “But look, Joe Dance is getting up. Pray don’t let him break loose again.”
For the coxswain suddenly sat up and stared about him wildly. Then calming down, he cried,—