“No,” I replied. “Why?”
“Well,” he began, “it is rather a romantic story—”
“Then, I shouldn’t think it can be much in your line,” interrupted Mr Stormcock, who somehow or other was always down upon any chap for ever starting a yarn. “You tell very practical ones; only, instead of the term ‘story’ I would use a shorter and more expressive word.”
“Say ‘lie’ if you like; I know you mean it,” rejoined Larkyns, in no way put out by the rude insinuation and continuing his narrative quite composedly. “But, you’re wrong in this case, old Stormy, for ‘faix it’s no lie I’m telling you now,’ as the doctor’s Irish marine would say. It’s the plain, unadulterated truth. I had the tale from a Portuguese monk at Funchal.”
“Funchal,” put in Mr Fortescue Jones, the assistant-paymaster, caressing his whiskers as usual and cocking his eye as if he were going to catch Larkyns tripping. “When were you there?”
“In the Majestic, when I was a cadet,” promptly returned the mid, taking up the cudgels at once. “It was in the same year you were tried by court-martial for breaking your leave!”
This was a “settler” for poor Mr Jones.
“Go on, Larkyns,” I said, at this point, to change the conversation and cover the paymaster’s confusion as he bent his head over his plate. “I want to hear that yarn of yours about Madeira.”
“All right, Johnny,” he replied in his chaffy way; “only, you don’t pronounce the name right, my son. It should be called ‘My-deary,’ not ‘Madeir-ah.’ Hang it all, Stormcock, stow that!”
“Don’t apologise,” said the master’s mate, who just at that instant had thrown a biscuit at Larkyns, causing the violent interjection which he interpolated in his story. “I thought I would supply the proper accentuation for you, that’s all.”