“Then I must have slept nearly twice the round of the clock!” cried the other in surprise.
“Going on that way,” laughed Tom, diving into his portmanteau and fishing out several garments. “My ‘duds’ are most of them packed away in my trunks,” he went on, “and they, you know, are down in the hold with the rest of the heavy luggage; but I’ll do my best to turn you out respectably. By the way, what’s your name?”
“George—George Maurice Weston.”
“Well, George, here’s a pair of white flannel ‘bags,’ and a ditto shirt—they’re my old cricketing ‘togs;’ but I thought they’d come in useful during the voyage, and so left ’em out. Here’s a jacket, rather the worse for wear, and that stupid fellow, the second steward, capsized a plate of soup over it the other night—see, there are the stains, down the right shoulder and arm! But you won’t mind that?”
“Not a bit,” put in George, taking the unlucky garment. “I’ve learnt not to be over particular.”
“There’s a collar, a cravat, and a pair of socks; and there’s a pair of shoes—nice, easy ones, too. Now, look alive, old chap; slip ’em on, and then we’ll go and get some grub.”
Rattling on in this manner, Tom helped his new friend to dress—or fitted him out “from truck to kelson,” as he expressed it; for Tom had become very nautical in his language since he joined the Surat Castle—and then surveyed him with a critical eye.
“Come, that’s not so bad! you look less like an ancient Briton now,” said he, crowning young Weston with a cricket cap upon which was embroidered the school-house badge. “Feel a bit queer though at first, eh, George Maurice?”
“Rather so,” George answered, wriggling himself. “The shoes and socks are the worst. You see I’ve gone barefoot for such a precious long time. However, I shall no doubt get accustomed to them in a day or two.”
“Of course you will,” assented Tom. “Now come along and I’ll introduce you to the ladies; we have five on board—three married women and two girls. Won’t they make a fuss over you and that little sister of yours!”