“Here I runs across this Webster, who is cousin to old man Jackson at the Falklands, and who is the most uncommon damn fool, as he says himself.”
“’Pon me whurd, he’s got the proper man for a mate to back him, thin,” observed O’Toole.
“I do know something about handling canvas,” answered Garnett, taking the remark for a compliment; “but may I eternally stew if I don’t speak the truth when I says it takes a m-a-n to handle those gangs about decks.”
“What air ye pratin’ about, man? Do ye mane yer own watch?”
“Now, stave me endwise if you ain’t the same red-headed idiot you always was,” growled Garnett. “Calling a watch a gang! Lord love ye, man, there are one hundred and twenty men atween decks o’ that clipper, and every mother’s son is an out an’ out, all around—”
“Steady, steady, mate,” I said. “Those ladies will hear you if you don’t brace up that tongue of yours.”
“D’ye mane t’ say ye are a convict ship?” cried O’Toole, in amazement.
I tried to conceal my astonishment, but O’Toole jumped up and stood on the hatch, staring hard at the Englishman. “’Pon me whurd, it is so, fer a fact. Now may the prophet sind us a good wind to waft us from sich company. B’ th’ faith av the howly saints, Garnett, I never thought it. ’Pon me whurd I didn’t. Now that’s a cargo I don’t want to sail with, an’ ye must be way down, shipmate, when ye drop t’ th’ carrying av a lot av human cattle. Lord! One hundred and twenty poor divils goin’ ter hell as fast as Bill Garnett can pilot them. So that’s the whyfore ye are headed for the Andamans.”
“Sure,” was Garnett’s laconic answer.
“But you don’t turn to the whole gang at once, do you?” I asked.