“Holloo, messmate! where are you bound?” bawled a sailor in the crowd.
“To the port o' Blackwall,” replied the steersman. “But we're going quite in the wind's eye, and I'm afeared we shan't make it to-night.”
“A queer craft.”
“Werry,” replied Tom. “Don't answer the helm at all.”
“Any grog on board?” demanded the sailor.
“Not enough to wet the boatswain's whistle; for, da'e see, mate, there's no room for stowage.”
“Shiver my timbers!—no grog!” exclaimed the other; “why—you'll founder. If you don't splice the main-brace, you'll not make a knot an hour. Heave to—and let's drink success to the voyage.”
“With all my heart, mate, for I'm precious krank with tacking. Larboard, Tom—larboard.”
“Aye, aye—larboard it is.”
“Now, run her right into that 'ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let's have a bowl.”