"So you thoroughly like the sea?" said Duncan.
"Well, Duncan, I never thoroughly liked anything, you know, but I think I love a sea-life better than most sorts of existence, with the exception, of course, of wandering over the hills of old Glenvoie; bird-nesting in the forests, or fishing in its beautiful streams. Only the sea has its drawbacks."
"Yes."
"Yes, for I do think it a nuisance to have to get up at all hours of the night to keep watch--blowing or calm. I always feel I should be willing to give five years of my life for another two hours' sleep, when the fellow shakes me by the shoulder and says, 'Eight bells, sir, if you please'. Just as if it would not be eight bells whether I pleased or not. Then, neither the tommy nor tack is quite up to shore standard, and one could do well enough without cockroaches about a foot and a half long--more or less--between his sheets, weevils in his biscuits, and spiders roasted and ground up with his coffee. The tea is always sea-sick too, and hens' milk[1] isn't the best, especially if the eggs be old and decrepit. But I won't grumble, Duncan."
[1] An egg or two beaten up with water. Used at sea when no milk is to be had.
"No, I wouldn't, if I were you. Sailors never do."
"And now you're laughing at me."
"That's nothing, Frank; one may live a long time after being laughed at."
"Well, come along below, and I'll play you something that will make the tear-drops trickle down that old-fashioned Scotch nose of yours."
"Wouldn't you rather hear the wild and martial strains of the bagpipes, my little Cockney cousin?"