“Ye vood, ye liar, presshus shoon if ye ’ad arf a shance, I bet, s’help me!” shouted out the other man, who, from his speech, was evidently a Hebrew and a creditor. “Ye’re von tarn sheet, dat’s vot ye vas, a bloomin’ corpse swindler, vot sheets de living, s’help me, and rops ze dead! I shpit upon ye, I does!”
“Come, come, you fellows there, I can’t allow such language on board this ship,” sang out from the poop Lieutenant Jellaby, the officer of the watch, when matters had come to this pass. “Ship’s corporal, bring those men here!”
In obedience to this command, the two disputants were both brought aft, Poll Nash following also, being an interested party, to get back her clothes or the money from “Downy.”
The latter was at once recognised by Lieutenant Jellaby, a jolly fellow, in whose watch I was. He went by his Christian name of “Joe” amongst us all, being very good-natured and always full of fun and chaff.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “You’re the gravedigger, ain’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied “Downy” sedately, as his original profession probably inculcated. “That were my humble calling, sir.”
“Why did you give it up, eh?”
“Trade got slack, sir.”
“How was that?”
“Porchmouth’s too healthy a place, sir,” answered the man, as grave as a judge. “People won’t die there fast enough, sir, for my trade; so I had to turn it up, ’cause I couldn’t make a decent living out of ’em.”