“Tom Fillot looks cranky, but there isn’t much the matter with him. Coxswain Dance couldn’t jig to save his life. T’others are blue mouldy, and old Whitney talks about ’em as if he was using bricks and mortar. He says he shall build ’em up.”
“But do pray tell me all about it, Bob,” said Mark, querulously.
“I say, don’t cry about it, or I won’t tell you anything.”
“I won’t say a word, only I am so impatient to know.”
“Want to know it all—from the very beginning?”
“Of course. Don’t tease me, Bob, now I’m so weak.”
“Oh, won’t I. Got you down flat, old chap. Can’t bounce and bully me now. Give me much of your nonsense, I’ll punch your old head. Now, then, where’ll you have it?”
Bob struck an attitude, and began to square at his messmate playfully; but he sat down again directly.
“Well, I’ll let you off this time, and take pity on you as you’re such a cripple. Ahem! All in to begin?”
Mark looked at him piteously, and Bob laid his hand upon his arm.