"Belike you're right!" says I.
"Mart'n, Sir Rupert's ashore to meet her ladyship, so you'm free to come 'bove deck if so minded?"
"Nay, I'll bide where I am, Godby."
"Why then come, Mart'n, clap your eye on my beauties—here's guns, Mart'n, six culverins and t'others sakers, and yonder astern two basilisks as shall work ye death and destruction at two or three thousand paces; 'bove deck amidships I've divers goodly pieces as minions, falcons and patereros with murderers mounted aft to sweep the waist. For her size she's well armed is the 'Faithful Friend,' Mart'n!"
Thus Godby, as he led me from gun to gun slapping hand on breech or trunnion, and as I hearkened 'twas hard to recognise the merry peddler in this short, square, grave-faced gunner who spake with mariner's tongue, hitched ever and anon at the broad belt of his galligaskins, and rolled in his gait already.
"She's a fair ship!" says I, seating myself on one of the great guns mounted astern.
"She is so, Mart'n. There's no finer e'er sailed from Deptford Pool, which is saying much, split me if it isn't. Though, when all's said, Martin, I could wish for twenty more men to do justice to my noble guns, aye thirty at the least."
"Are we so short?"
"We carry but ninety and two all told, pal, which considering my guns is pity—aye, vast pity, plague me else! 'Twould leave me shorthanded to serve my guns should they be necessary, which is fair and likely, Martin."
"And black rogues they are!" says I.