The answer of the Sailor was understood to be in the affirmative.
"First class, o' course," said Pouncer, with a deliberate wink at Gogo and Twopenny.
Ginger's hand was so full that he could afford to treat the observation on its merits.
"Third class, Pouncer. It was third, Sailor boy?" The appeal to Sailor boy had a superb touch of condescension. Pouncer would cheerfully have given a week's wages for the privilege of slaying Ginger.
"Yep—third," muttered the miserable one.
"Ginger Jukes," said the defiant Pouncer, "if you want my 'pinion, you don't know Dinkie Dawson at all. That's my 'pinion."
"Your opinion was not ast, young Pouncer." Ginger's air was that of a Napoleon. "An' when anyone pleadin' well asts it, Pouncer, you can give it. Perhaps you'll say that Sailor didn't read Dinkie's letter?"
"So he says," sneered Pouncer.
The Sailor winced, but the cognoscenti were much too busy to notice him.
"You are never goin' to call him a liar," said Ginger.