“I can’t make head nor tail of what you say,” was the boy’s reply.
“Well, what’s amiss with you, then? Can you compass that?”
“Ay,” was the reply; “I understand that well enough. There’s plenty amiss with me, for I’ve had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday, and I haven’t brass to buy anything with.”
“Ah, I see. I suppose you mean by that foreign lingo that you haven’t a shot in your locker, and you want a bit of summut to stow away in your hold.”
“I mean,” replied the lad, rather sulkily, “that I’m almost starved to death.”
“Well, it’s no odds,” cried the other. “I can’t quite make you out; but I see you’ve hoisted signals of distress: there, sit you down. Landlord, a glass of grog, hot, and sweet, and strong. Here, take a pull at that till the grog comes.”
He handed to him a pewter-pot as he spoke.
The boy pushed it from him with a look of disgust.
“I can’t touch it,” he said. “If you’ll give me a mouthful of meat instead, I’ll thank you; and with all my heart too.”
“Meat!” exclaimed the sailor, in astonishment, “what’s the young lubber dreaming about? Come, don’t be a fool; drink the ale, and you shall have some bread and cheese when you’ve finished your grog.”