“Quilp!! by George!” repeated our second-master.
“Quilp!!!” added I, “by all that’s small and ugly.”
“Your sarvant, sar,” said Quilp himself. “I am one pilot.” There certainly was not enough of him to make two. He was rather darker in skin than the Quilp of Dickens, and his only garment was a coal-sack without sleeves—no coal-sack has sleeves, however—begirt with a rope, in which a short knife was stuck; he had, besides, sandals on his feet, and his temples were begirt with a dirty dishclout by way of turban, and he repeated, “I am one pilot, sar.”
“Can you take us over the bar?” asked the commander.
“How much water you?”
“Three fathoms.”
“I do it, sar, plenty quick.”
“Twenty shillings if you do.”
“I do it, sar. I do him,” cried the little man, as he mounted the bridge; then cocking his head to one side, and spreading out his arms like a badly feathered duck, he added, “Suppose I no do him plenty proper, you catchee me and make shot.”
“If the vessel strikes, I’ll hang you, sir.”