“Why don’t the mission smacks sell baccy too?” asked Jacob, stamping his feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the tiller for the same purpose.
“You’re a knowing fellow,” returned the admiral, with a short laugh; “why, that’s just what they’ve bin considerin’ about at the Head Office—leastwise, so I’m told; an’ if they manage to supply the fleets wi’ baccy at 1 shilling a pound, which is 6 pence less than the Dutchmen do, they’ll soon knock the copers off the North Sea altogether. But the worst of it is that we won’t git no benefit o’ that move till a mission smack is sent to our own fleet, an’ to the half-dozen other fleets that have got none.”
At this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the admiral went forward, and left Jacob Jones, who was a new hand in the fleet, to his meditations.
One of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the Swarte Bank not far from the admiral was the Lively Poll—repaired, and rendered as fit for service as ever. Not far from her sailed the Cherub, and the Cormorant, and that inappropriately named Fairy, the “ironclad.”
In the little box of the Lively Poll—which out of courtesy we shall style the cabin—Jim Freeman and David Duffy were playing cards, and Stephen Lockley was smoking. Joe Stubby was drinking, smoking, and grumbling at the weather; Hawkson, a new hand shipped in place of Fred Martin, was looking on. The rest were on deck.
“What’s the use o’ grumblin’, Stub?” said Hawkson, lifting a live coal with his fingers to light his pipe.
“Don’t ‘Stub’ me,” said Stubley in an angry tone.
“Would you rather like me to stab you?” asked Hawkson, with a good-humoured glance, as he puffed at his pipe.
“I’d rather you clapped a stopper on your jaw.”
“Ah—so’s you might have all the jawin’ to yourself?” retorted Hawkson.