"He ain't a gurl o' that sort," interposed Bum hastily. "My 'pinion, he's a spieler. No more a detective nor I am."
I returned to the group. My friends drained their pannikins; Thompson threw his at the tucker-box, and Cooper was just aiming his, when Willoughby, who had shared the frosted mutton, interposed——
"If you please, Cooper."
"Seen better days, pore (fellow)," observed Cooper sympathetically, as the ripple of the water into the pannikin indicated that the whaler was at the tap.
"Can't see much worse," mused Thompson.
"My (adj.) oath—can't he?" chuckled Mosey. "Hold on till he gits old."
"People seem to think Gawd made these here colonies for a rubbage-heap," said Bum. "That's the English idear of"——
"Stiddy, Charley," interrupted Dixon. "Everybody's got a right to live, an' that pore (fellow)'s got jist as much right as me or you. A man ought to show respect to misforcune, Charley."
"Shall I bring a pannikin of water for any of you gentlemen?" asked Willoughby, without a trace of ironical emphasis on the last word.
"Fetch me one while yer hand's in," replied Bum