After that he was always welcome in sailors' fo'c's'les by reason of his smuggling story, which would commence with—“When I was cook on the Espiritu Santo” (only he used the English instead of the Spanish name) “I got jugged by the gory gardy costers,” &c, &c.
When we came on deck he was sitting on the main-hatch with the Chinese carpenter—whose pipe he was smoking—and telling him that he ought to get rid of his native wife, who was a Gilbert Island girl, and buy a Ponape girl.
“I can git yer the pick o' the (crimson) island, an' it won't cost yer more'n a few (unprintable) dollars. I'm a (bad word) big man 'ere among the (adjective) natives.”
Hung looked up at him stolidly with half-closed eyes. Then he took the pipe out of his mouth and said in a deadly cold voice—
“You palally liar, Spleetoo.”
He slouched aft again presently, and asked the mate, in an amiable tone of voice, if he had “any (ruddy) noospapers from Sydney.”
“What the devil do you want newspapers for?” inquired Hayes, turning round suddenly in his deck-chair, “you can't read, Spreetoo.”
“Can't read, eh?” and his red-rimmed, lashless eyes simulated intense indignation. “Wot about that 'ere (red) bishop at Manilla, as wanted me to chuck up me (scarlet) billet on the Spreetoo S antoo and travel through the (carnaged) Carryline Grewp as 's (sanguinary) sekketerry? 'Cos why? 'Cos there ain't any (blank) man atween 'ere an' 'ell as can talk the warious lingoes like me.”