“Good morning, mistress,” Dick began in his best manner.
Pet stared at him open-mouthed, her yellow teeth looking like fangs. She had never seen such finery.
Dick, although himself rather taken aback at Pet’s appearance, could not but feel flattered at her evident approval of his own.
Pet’s bleared eyes now fell on Blueneck and a shade of recognition passed over her wrinkled, spirit-sodden face.
“Oh! it’s you again, ronyon, hey?” she cried in her cracked crooning voice into which an eager note had crept. “You have no rum kegs slung about you, eh?”
Blueneck waved his hand impatiently.
“Throw down the ladder, that we may come up and talk with thee, hag,” he ordered peremptorily.
Pet hobbled off to obey him without a word, and Dick turned to his mate in something like admiration.
“You have been well schooled, friend,” he said approvingly. “Yours is an excellent way of dealing with crones.”
“Have a care!” called Pet from above as she threw the rope ladder over the side. The end passed within an inch of Blueneck’s shoulders and he looked up angrily.