“Ye durned lop-handled coon!” cried out the cantankerous bully, looking down on Jan from the top of the plank that crossed the trench, and served as a sort of gangway between the foot of the side ladder and the firm ground beyond the excavation. “Why don’t ye put yer back into it? Ye’re a nice sort o’ skallywag to hev charge of a gang—ye’re only a-playin’ at workin’, ye an’ the hull pack on yer; fur the durned dock ain’t nary a sight deeper than it wer at four bells yester arternoon, I reckon!”
Jan Steenbock was in no wise disturbed by this exordium.
Dropping his pick, he looked up at the mate; while the rest of the men likewise stopped working, waiting to see what would happen, and grinning and nudging each other.
“Mine goot mans,” said he in his deep voice, with unruffled composure, “vas you sbeak to mees?”
Mr Flinders jumped up and down on the plank gangway, making it sway to and fro with his excitement.
“Vas I sbeak to ye?” he screamed, mimicking in his shrill treble the Dane’s pronunciation. “Who else sh’ud I speak to, ye Dutch son of a gun? Stir yer stumps, d’ye haar, an’ let us see ye airnin’ yer keep, ye lazy hound!”
“Mistaire Vlinders!”
“Aye, thet’s me; I’m glad ye reck’lect I’ve a handle to my name.”
“Mistaire Vlinders,” repeated Jan, paying no attention to the other’s interruption. “If you vas sbeak to me, you vas best be zee-vil.”
“What d’ye mean?” cried the mate. “Durn yer imperence; what d’ye mean?”