“Faith, sor, ye couldn’t do botther,” replied Mick, caressing Jocko with much satisfaction, evidently proud to be his real owner. “Sure, an’ if Oi’ve got to go to say ag’in an’ can’t look afther the baiste mesilf, it’s some ’un ilse Oi’ll be afther givin’ him to thet’ll say to him aven betther nor mesilf!”
“And who’s that?” inquired the boatswain, with a laugh, noticing a flush come over Mick’s face. “You know I’m interested in the monkey and have a sort of right to ask.”
Mick looked ‘nine ways for Sunday,’ to use his own favourite expression.
“Bedad, sor,” he at length replied sheepishly, “it’s Jenny, sor.”
“But,” persisted Mr Blockley, smelling a rat, “who’s Jenny?”
“Tom’s sisther, sure.”
“O-o-oh!”
Not being certain exactly as to the meaning of Mr Blockley’s ejaculation, Mick went on to explain further.
“Yis, sor, she’s the sisther, sure, ov me fri’nd Tom Bowlin’ here, sor,” he said, pointing me out by a punch in the ribs that nearly knocked all the breath out of me. “An’, sure, she’s moighty fond ov burrds!”
Mr Blockley laughed.