'Gosh!' he ejaculated, marvelling exceedingly.
''Ullo! Wot's up wi' you, Pincher?' asked another ordinary seaman, Hawkins by name. Martin had already been nicknamed, and 'Pincher,' he understood, was the sobriquet accorded to all men with his particular surname.
'I wus only wonderin' to meself if'—he hesitated timidly.
'Wonderin' wot?' persisted his companion.
'Wonderin' if this wus the 'ole navy. There seems plenty o' ships 'ere.'
'Lawks, 'ark at 'im!' exclaimed the other youngster, going off into a shrill cackle of amusement 'Jist 'ark at 'im, you blokes! Arskin' if the 'ole navy is 'ere. 'Strewth! there ain't a quarter nor a 'undredth of 'em in this 'ere bunch.'
Martin, rather ashamed of his ignorance, reddened and nodded. 'Wot's that there?' he asked, changing the subject, and pointing to a gray, cigar-shaped vessel lying in a dry dock, with dockyard 'maties' swarming on board her.
'That there's a submarine,' Hawkins explained; 'one o' them there craft wot goes under water.'
'Gosh! She's a funny-lookin' thing. Wot sort o' blokes serves in 'em?'
'Matloes,[ [4] Pincher, the same as you an' me. They doesn't carry O.D.'s, though; only A.B.'s an' E.R.A.'s,[ 5] an' such like. They get extra pay for wot they does. It's a bit dangerous like.'