Sturdy was a good-natured fellow anyhow, although sea-beaten and rough. His daily life and intercourse with his messmates proved that.
"That's right," said the doctor, patronizingly; "you're dressing up to fight the weather, I see."
"Dressing up to fight fiddlesticks, Reikie. It's going to be a bit of a blow, that's all, and I want to be snug. See!—Hullo, little man!" he added, patting Jack on the head; "a bit squeamish, eh? No? All right; keep below for a few days."
Mr. Gribble, the assistant-paymaster, was entering the ward-room dressed in a uniform pilot-jacket, with his cap well reefed, and his hands fathoms deep in his trousers pockets.
He stuck himself right in the doorway, spreading his elbows to steady himself.
"Hullo!" he said, screwing his mouth and eyebrows about as if his face were india-rubber—"hullo! Who are you? Hey?"
"Gangway, Mr. Cheek," answered Sturdy, "unless you want me to give you a fair wind down the hatchway there. You'd look nice riding stride legs on the shaft."
"Why, my blessed eyes, if it ain't you yourself, Lieutenant Benjamin Sturdy! Blow me sky-high if I didn't think it was old Neptune come on board. I say, young man," he continued, "do you know that a yellow oilskin and sou'-wester ain't uniform? I'll be obliged to take notice of it. Sea-boots and all!"
Sturdy lifted a huge brown fist and made pretence he was going to cut Gribble clean through the steerage.
Gribble dodged. "Don't hit a little chap," he cried. "I'll let you off this time."