“Yes, sir, and had a tutor.”
“A tutor, eh? What may that be? But lookye here, my lad; I arn’t a sir—on’y a marrineer.”
“A what, sir?” said the boy, staring.
“Marrineer—seaman. Fore the mast man, ship now lying off the port o’ Torquay. Whatcher doing there?”
“Cry-ying, sir,” came for answer, with a piteous sob.
“Cry-hying, you young swab?” roared the man, as if he were speaking through a storm. “Here, sop that up. Father been leathering yer?”
“No, sir.”
“No, Jack Jeens!” yelled the man. “Sir, indeed! Jack Jeens—that’s my name. England is my dwellin’ place—leastwise, when I arn’t off France and Spain, or in the ’Terranium leathering the French. Now, then, who has been givin’ it to you? Mother, p’r’aps, and turned you out of doors?”
“No, sir,” sobbed the boy, with a piteous look, in the gathering darkness.
“Yah!” came so savagely that the boy started to run; but the grip upon his shoulder tightened, and he was forced back against the bars of the gate. “Now, just you look here, messmet. You’re such a little un that I don’t like to hit yer for fear you should break; but don’t you haggravate me by talking as if I was a hofficer.”