Phil was not a better seaman than Dick, but he was a more temperate man, therefore clearer brained and more dependable.
Soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a landsman, might have been suggestive of the ’bus, cab, and van throng in the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the Bank of England.
Sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the North Sea from many stentorian lungs.
“What cheer? what cheer?” cried some in passing.
“Hallo, Tim! how are ’ee, old man! What luck?”
“All right, Jim; on’y six trunks.”
“Ha! that’s ’cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday.”
“Is that you, Ted?”
“Ay, ay, what’s left o’ me—worse luck. I thought your mother was goin’ to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby.”
“So she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o’ buttermilk an’ got drownded, so I had to come off again, d’ee see?”