'And he's my uncle,' said Geordie Potts; 'his sister was my mother, and here I am before the stick in one of his old wind-jammers, and gettin' two-pun-ten in this here Patriarch of his, and hang me if I believe the old bloke has another relative in the world. It's hard lines, mates, it's hard lines. Don't you allow it's hard lines?'
It was Sunday morning in the South-East Trades, and every sail was drawing, 'like a bally droring-master,' as Geordie once said, and the 'crowds' of the Patriarch were all fairly easy in their minds and ready for a discussion.
'If so be you are 'is nevvy, as you state,' said the port watch cautiously, 'we allows it's 'ard lines.'
'I've stated it frequent,' said Geordie, 'and it's the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but it, so help me. D'ye think I'd claim to be old Tyser's sister's son if I wasn't? I'd scorn to claim it.'
'Any man would scorn to be Tyser's sister's son,' said the starboard watch; 'he'd scorn to be 'im unless 'e was, for Tyser's a mean old dog, ain't 'e, Geordie?'
Geordie thanked his watch-mates for backing him up so. 'That's right, chaps. There 's no meaner in the north of England, or the south for that matter, and the way this ship's found is scandalous.'
'The grub's horrid,' said both watches.
'And look at the gear,' said Geordie; 'everything ready to part a deal easier than my uncle is. I never lays hold of a halliard but I'm thinking I'll go on my back if I pulls heavy. Oh, he's a fair scandal!'
He considered the scandal soberly, and with some sadness.
'He might leave you some dibs, Geordie,' suggested his mate, Jack Braby; 'he might, after all.'