Several ordinary seamen followed, until the fag end of the lot was reached, consisting of a number of greenhorns who had never been to sea previously; and these, on declaring their willingness to serve Her Gracious Majesty, were sent down into the steerage to join the after-guard.
“What are you?” inquired the commander of a sooty sort of gentleman, who, with another more morose personage, stood at the extreme rear of this group. “I mean, what did you do ashore for a livelihood, my man?”
“Wot hev h’I been a-doin’ of fur a lively-hood, sir?” repeated the sooty gentleman, who evidently was a wag, speaking, albeit with a comical expression on his countenance, with a native dignity that would have won the praise of Lord Chesterfield. “W’y, sir, h’I’m a ‘h’upright,’ sir, that’s wot h’I h’am!”
“An ‘upright’!” exclaimed Commander Nesbitt, with a smile. “I’ve heard of wheelwrights, and millwrights and shipwrights, of course, but never of such a calling as an ‘upright’—what’s that, eh?”
“I thought as ’ow I’d puzzle you, sir,” replied the man with a grin. “I’m a chimbly-sweeper by trade.”
“Oh, a chimney-sweeper? Then you ought to be good at climbing, and I cannot do better than send you aloft. You can go forrud now.”
Saying this, the commander turned to the last man the morose one, questioning him in like fashion.
“And what have you been?”
“I’m a ‘downright,’ sir,” said he, as grave as a judge. “Wot they calls a ‘downright,’ sir.”
“Now, don’t you try on any of your jokes with me, my man, or you’ll find yourself in the wrong box, which is the strong box on board ship, and vulgarly called chokey!”