“No spittin’!” cried Satan.
Cleary, averting his head in time to send the squirt of tobacco juice overside instead of on the deck, looked around.
He nodded at Ratcliffe, disregarded Jude, and fixed his eye on the blazing binnacle and the glittering rods of the skylight.
“Dandy ship,” said he. “Whaar you goin’ to take the prize?”
“Where your old tub’d be skeered to show her nose. How’s the potato crop gettin’ along?”
Cleary turned his quid over and allowed his eyes to travel about the deck.
“Waal,” said he, speaking with point and consideration, “some likes one thing and some likes another, but I never did see that fandanglin’ with frills an’ brasswork an’ sich lends anythin’ to the sailin’ qualities of a ship.”
Jude, raising herself up from flemish coiling a rope, blazed out:
“Maybe it don’t to an old cod boat blowin’ along with her own smell,” began Jude.