The master-at-arms burst out laughing, for really the devil-me-care chap’s brogue was strong enough to have hung a kettle full of potatoes on it. Even the ship’s corporal could not help smiling, though in the presence of his superior officer.
“Nonsense, boy, don’t you try to gammon me,” cried the master-at-arms, as soon as he was able to speak. “An Italian from the county Cork, I’m thinking!”
“Oi’m that same, yer honour,” protested the other, as grave as a judge. “Me fayther came over here harvestin’ last summer, sor, an’ turned organ-grinder; an’ now, sure, he’s an Oitalian.”
“Was it him that signed this paper?” asked the master-at-arms, when he was able to control his speech again after a second burst of merriment at the Irish boy’s droll way of expressing himself, and comical look. “I s’pose it’s his new foreign style of writing and spelling that prevented my making out your name at first?”
“Sure, sor, he wanted the praste fur to soign it,” said the other in his racy brogue. “But Father Maloney said he’d be persecuted for bigummy if he did it, an’ he’d have fur to do it himsilf; an’ so, bad cess to it, fayther stuck the ind of his dhudeen in the ink-bottle, I’ll take me oath, sor, an’ soigned his name thare, sor, jist whare ye say it, wid his own hand, as Oi’m a livin’ sinner!”
“Well, well, Donovan, that’s enough. I’ll take your word for it,” said the master-at-arms, anxious to get rid of him, feeling his gravity giving way again. “But you’ll first have to pass your medical examination, my lad, before you can join the ship. Corporal, take all three of them to the doctor in the sick-bay, at once!”
With that, the lot of us started off, in company with the corporal.