“Simply a party of experimenters,” rejoined Mr. Chadwick. “As you see, this is a submarine.”
“Ho yuss,” came in a voice of intense sarcasm, “h’and does yer call h’it h’experimentin’ ter carry away my bloomin’ anchor cable? I comes to anchor here to wait for a pilot an’ you h’ups and cuts my rope. ‘Oo’s goin’ ter pay fer h’it? That’s what h’I want ter know.”
“I guess we can come to an amicable arrangement on that,” declared Mr. Chadwick; “how much do you want for it?”
“Ho! I don’t suppose you’ll mind jus’ forkin’ over a ’undred pounds.”
“You’ve got another guess coming, my friend,” was Mr. Chadwick’s rejoinder. “I happen to know something about the cost of cables myself. I’ll give you sixty dollars for that rope, and even that’s too much.”
“‘Ow much is sixty dollars in your bloomin’ money?” inquired the skipper of the square rigger, after he had turned to and ordered his crew to lower another anchor.
“Twelve pounds,” rejoined Mr. Chadwick.
“H’all right, I suppose I ‘ave to toik h’it; but h’I never thought that Halbert Jenkins ’ud live ter ’ave his bloomin’ cable cut by a submarine. H’I suppose that the next thing that ’appens, my royals ’ull be carried h’off by a h’airship.”
“A hair ship,” grinned Tom. “They must use barber poles for masts on a craft of that kind.”
“H’I didn’t mean the ’air of the ’ead; h’I meant the h’air of the h’atmosphere,” responded Captain Jenkins with dignity. “You bloomin’ h’American kids h’are too fresh, by a jolly sight.”