'Orl right, old puddin'-face. Keep yer 'air on!' Pincher observed with a smile.
The lookers-on laughed loudly, for the manager was rather unpopular, and his face really was too fat to be pleasant.
'Pudding-face!' he gasped. 'Who are you calling pudding-face?'
But Pincher was out of earshot.
III.
'Request-men an' defaulters—'shun!' bawled the master-at-arms, as the commander passed aft along the quarterdeck and took his stand behind a small scrubbed table upon which were a pile of papers and several ponderous-looking books.
'Petty Officer Weatherley!'
The petty officer left the line, stepped smartly forward to the table, clicked his heels, and saluted.
'Petty Officer William Weatherley,' the M.A.A.[ [20] went on, 'requests hextension o' leaf till two P.M. on Monday.'
The commander looked up. 'Can he be spared?' was his first question.