“Well, I don’t see that there was anything to laugh at,” cried Rodd, softening down a little, for somehow the liking he had felt for the sturdy-looking sailor ever since he had come on board had gone on increasing, and Rodd affected Joe’s society more than that of any one in the ship. At least he said so to Uncle Paul, who shook his head and with a grim smile joined issue.
“No, Pickle,” he cried, “I won’t have that. You seem to make better friends with the cook than with anybody.”
“Oh, uncle,” replied the boy, “you always do tease me about my appetite.”
“Never mind, Pickle,” said Uncle Paul good-humouredly. “Go on eating, and grow.”
But to return to the conversation by the taffrail.
“No, sir,” said Joe Cross, “of course you don’t, sir. It’d be contrairy to nature if you did. We chaps can’t see ourselves. There’s the old Bun. He’s been offended over and over again because people told him he was so fat. He can’t see it, sir.”
“Oh, he must,” cried Rodd, laughing.
“There aren’t no must in it, sir. He can’t. He might find it out perhaps if he tried to get into a pair of boy’s trousers—yours, for instance; but then that aren’t likely, because you won’t give him the chance, and what’s more, he wouldn’t want to. You try him some day about being too fat, and you see if he don’t stare at you.”
“He will, Joe, when I’m so rude to him. But come now, you are shuffling. Why is it that you laugh at me?”
“Well, sir, because I like you, for one thing, and another is because you are such an unreasonable chap.”