The other sailor watched the speaker in cold contempt as he prepared a distinctly exiguous, ill-fed cigarette.
“Harthur Handrews,” he said, turning to his other neighbour, “’Ave yew ’appened to see the Master Sail-maker or any of ’is mermydiuns ’ere-abahts, by any chawnst?”
“Nope. ’An don’ want. Don’ wan’ see nothink to remind me o’
Ther blue, ther fresh, ther hever free,
Ther blarsted, beastly, boundin’ sea.
Not even your distressin’ face and dirty norticle apparile. Why do you arksk sich silly questchings?”
“Willyerm Jones is amakin’ a needle for ’im.”
“As ’ow?”
“Wiv a fag-paper an’ a thread o’ yaller baccy. ’E’s makin’ a bloomin’ needle,” and with a sudden grab he possessed himself of the pouch, papers, and finished product of Seaman Jones’s labours and generosity.
Having pricked himself severely and painfully with the alleged cigarette, he howled with pain, cast it from him, proceeded to stick two papers together and to make an uncommonly stout, well-nourished, and bounteous cigarette.
“I ’fought I offered you to make yourself a cigarette, ’Enery,” observed the astounded owner of the materia nicotina.