“Nother do I,” said another, “It’s all a sham; come, now, ain’t it, Bill?” he added, turning to a bronzed veteran who had visited California two years before.
“A sham!” exclaimed Bill. “I tell ’e wot it is, messmate, when you comes for to see the miners in San Francisco drinkin’ shampain like water, an’ payin’ a dollar for a glass o’ six-water grog, you’ll—”
“How much is a dollar?” inquired a soft-looking youth, interrupting him.
Bill said it was “’bout four shillin’s,” and turned away with a look of contempt at such a display of ignorance.
“Four shillin’s!” exclaimed the soft youth, in amazement.
“Clear the anchor, and clew up the main-topsail,” shouted the mate.
In another moment the crew were scattered, some aloft to “lay out” on the topsail yard, some to the clew-lines, and some to clear the anchor, which latter had not been disturbed since the Roving Bess left the shores of Old England.