Sails extended a bared leg beside him, balancing, like a flamingo, on one foot. The boatswain, coming aft for a sack of paunch-mats, called on his maker to come aft and watch.
“B’gee, Sails,” said Mr. Iles, looking critically at the contesting leg. “You got a pretty good calf all right, all right.”
“You’ve been woolded pretty well, too,” said Sails. “You could keep them going, for a little feller.”
“Them little fellers,” said the boatswain flatteringly. “They do their piece. I seen little fellers keep them going when the rest is gone dormy.” He glanced at Stukeley, to see how Paris would decide.
“Boatswain strip, too,” suggested Stukeley. “Now, bose. Cock up your leg with the others.”
The boatswain shook his head with a laugh, and went back to his work.
“B’gee, sir,” said Mr. Iles, “the old bose is jealous. I’m getting cold, b’gee.” He danced a little step dance, slapping his feet.
“You’ve both got decent legs,” said Stukeley, taking the hint. “Damn good legs. But you want a connoisseur to decide. I’ll get Mr. Perrin!”
“Make him measure us,” said Mr. Iles.
“I ain’t going to have no Mr. Perrin,” said Sails, retiring. “My legs speaks for theirselves. You got no legs, Mr. Iles. You only got muscles. What a leg wants is pathos in the joints, like what I got.”