“Hit allus took six bobbies to take me hin, lads. Hand now one o’ the bloomin’ hofficers makes me walk a chalkline, haboard ship. Hi tell yuh, ain’t this war terrible?”
“That’s what it is,” admitted Frenchy, staring at the man with wide-open eyes.
“Come over here and sit down—and tell us all about it,” Whistler Morgan said, beckoning.
“Hi’ll go yuh!” declared the giant seaman. “Hand so wull me friend—one o’ the nicest little Yankees Hi ever come across.”
The strange Yankee sailor was too much disturbed by his situation to look very closely at Phil and his comrades. The viselike grip of the semi-intoxicated giant on his collar was the principal thing in the victim’s mind.
Almost as soon as the British seaman sprawled on the grassy bank his head began to nod and his eyes to close.
“He’s going off,” whispered Al Torrance.
“You’d think he would,” returned the victim of the over-friendly seaman, in the same tone, “if you could have seen him eat and drink. You never saw such an appetite! He had everybody at that inn standing around and gaping at us.”
It was evident that the young sailor felt his position deeply. He was a nice looking fellow, very neat in his dress, and with delicate features.
“How did you come to fall in with him in the first place?” Al asked, as the giant began to snore.