This Salim, poet, maker of the song that could not be uttered, tied up at the stage-head of Sam Swuth, who knew the sail of that small craft, and had lumbered down the hill to meet him.
“Pup of a day,” says Sam Swuth.
By this vulgarity Salim was appalled.
“Eh?” says Sam Swuth.
Salim’s pack, stowed amidships, was neatly and efficiently bound with tarpaulin, the infinite mystery of which he had mastered; but his punt, from stem to stern, swam deeply with water gathered on the way from Catch-as-Catch-Can.
“Pup of a day,” says Sam Swuth.
“Oh my, no!” cried Salim Awad, shocked by this inharmony with his mood. “Ver’ bad weather.”
“Pup of a day,” Sam Swuth insisted.
“Ver’ bad day,” said Salim Awad. “Ver’ beeg wind for thee punt.”
The pack was hoisted from the boat.