“That’s so,” from Seth.
“Well, that makes you a friend of mine,” from Stevenson. “Shake hands.”
Seth did shake hands, and Stevenson winced as he pulled his hand away.
“What an iron-fisted old sinner you are!”
“I reckon,” said Seth, quietly, “I can hold pretty tight for an old ’un.”
“Now,” continued Stevenson, “let me give you a piece of advice.”
“Spit it out,” said Seth.
“Well then, it is this: get rid of these antediluvian togs o’ yours. I won’t say you look a guy, but the suit ain’t shipshape, I assure you, and it makes you look—well, just a little remarkable; and mind you, if it comes on to blow only just a little bit, that venerable tile o’ yours’ll go overboard—sharp, and your wig too, if you wear one.”
“Look here, young man,” said Seth, “you talk pretty straight, you do; but as far as the wig is concerned, I wear my own hair as yet; as regards the togs, as you call ’em, I hain’t got nothing else to put on but skins. Skins wouldn’t suit a civilised ship. So unless you can fix me up decent and different, don’t talk, that’s all.”
“That’s fair, that’s right, Methus—I mean, Mr Seth.”