“Won’t last long,” said Haco.
“Won’t it?”
“No. Glass fallin’ fast.”
This seemed to be as much mental food as Gaff could comfortably digest at that time, for he made no rejoinder, but, drawing a short black pipe from his vest-pocket, sat down beside his friend, and filled and smoked it in silence.
“How’s the Roosians?” he inquired, after a long pause.
“All square,” said the skipper, who was addicted somewhat to figurative language and hyperbole in the form of slang, “another week in the doctor’s hands, an’ the grub of the London Home, will set ’em up taught an’ trim as ever.”
“Goin’ to blow hard, think ’ee?” asked Gaff.
“Great guns,” said Haco, puffing a cloud of smoke from his mouth, which was at that time not a bad imitation of a little gun.
“Soon?” inquired Gaff.
“P’r’aps yes, p’r’aps no.”