The fellow had that moment expectorated.
I answered that I had.
“He spit to wind’ard!” said my friend.
“What of that?” said I.
“A regular landsman’s trick,” observed my friend. “A real sailor never spits to wind’ard. Why, he could’nt.”
We soon passed the fellow, who pulled at a curl upon his forehead, and began in a gruff voice, intended to convey the idea of hardships, storms, shipwrecks, battles, and privations. “God—bless—your—’onors—give—a—copper—to—a—poor—sailor—as—hasn’t—spliced—the—main—jaw—since—the—day—’fore—yesterday—at—eight—bells—God—love—yer—’onors—do!—I—avent—tasted—sin’—the—day—’fore—yesterday—so—drop—a—cop—poor—seaman—do.”
My friend turned round and looked the beggar full in the face.
“What ship?” he asked, quickly.
The fellow answered glibly.