“Hay?” said Mr Johnny Raw, his eyes beginning to visibly brighten. “What fur be that?”
“Yer second ’lowance,” repeated the joker Harris. “All the noo hands can git it if they axes fur it.”
“Now, yer bean’t a-joking?”
“No,” declared Harris unblushingly, winking to the others around. “Joking—why should I, man?”
The greenhorn grew quite excited at the prospect of another tot of grog after his pipe.
“Say, shipmate,” said he, rising from the bench at the mess-table where he had been sitting having a whiff, “tell us wot I shall do fur to get un?”
“Take hold on that ‘spud-net’ there,” said Harris, pointing to the net in which the potatoes had been boiled for the mess, the other fellows near turning their backs so that Joblins couldn’t see them laugh as he proceeded to carry out the joker’s suggestion. “Ah, ye’ve got it all right, then? Now, Joblins, ye can take that to the upper deck, where they’re now sarvin’ out the grog for the port watch, and tell the ‘Jaunty’ that yer come fur yer second ’lowance.”
Would you believe it?
Well, whether you do so or not, all I have to say is that the innocent yokel actually went up on deck with the potato-net in his hand, holding it out in front of him as he took his station beside those standing round the grog-tub.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the ship’s steward, who acts as master of the ceremonies in this daily allowance of drink to the ship’s company, assisted by one of the corporals, and sometimes even by the master-at-arms himself, the purveyor of the grog recognising him as having previously received his quota. “What do you want here? You’ve had your ’lowance already!”