Little Ap took an immense pinch of snuff before he replied.
“I have built many a boat,” he said, “but never a barrow. But look, you see, with the help of the cooper and the carpenters I can build barrows by the dozen. Yes, yes, sir.”
“Bravo, Ap!” cried McBain; “then set about it at once, for we are all going to turn navvies. We are going,” he added, “to excavate a cave half-way up that brae yonder on the starboard quarter. It will be big enough, Ap, to hold the whole ship’s crew, officers and all. It will be a glorious shelter from the cold, and it will—”
“Stop,” cried Sandy McFlail. “Beg your pardon, sir, but let me finish the sentence: it will give the men employment and keep sickness away.”
“That’s it, my worthy surgeon,” said McBain.
“Bravo!” said Sandy. “I look upon that now as—”
Sandy paused and reddened a little.
“As a vera judeecious arrangement,” said Rory, laughing. “Out with it, Sandy, man.”
Rory edged off towards the door of the saloon as he spoke; the doctor kicked over his chair and made a dart after him, but Rory had fled. Hardly, however, was the surgeon re-seated ere his tormentor keeked in again.
“Eh! mon, Sandy McFlail,” he cried; “you’ll want to take a lot more salt in your porridge, mon, before ye can catch Rory Elphinston.”