Ernest looked up sharply at the quondam tar.
“Now, Adam, your complaint; I have no time to waste.”
Adam hitched up his breeches and began:
“You see, sir, I brought he here by the scruff of the neck.”
“That’s true, sir,” said the little man, rubbing that portion of his body.
“Because he and I, sir, as is messmates, sir, ’ad a difference of opinion. It was his day, you see, sir, to cook for our mess, and instead of putting on the pot, sir, he comes to me he does, and he says ‘Adam, you blooming father of a race of fools’—that’s what he says, sir, a-comparing of me to the gent who lived in a garden—‘why don’t you come and take the —— skins off the —— taters, instead of a-squatting of yourself down on that there —— bed!’”
“Slightly in error, sir,” broke in the little man, suavely; “our big friend’s memory is not as substantial as his form. What I said was, ‘My dear Adam, as I see you have nothing to occupy your time, except sit and play a jew’s-harp upon your couch, would you be so kind as to come and assist me to remove the outer integument of these potatoes?’”
Ernest began to explode, but checked himself, and said sternly:
“Don’t talk nonsense, Adam; tell me your complaint.”
“Well, sir,” answered the big sailor, scratching his head, “if I must give it a name, it is this—this here man, sir, be too infarnal sargustic.”