"Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), which I think yer oughter know, Sir,
'Ad the lip ter mutter 'Blast you!' ter the Fust-Class C.P.O., Sir."
There is silence in the foc's'le, on the quarter-deck dismay,
And the lower deck is humming in a most unusual way;
The working-party pauses as it cleans a six-inch gun,
And the Officer on Duty whispers hoarse to "Number One":—
"Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), I suppose you ought to know, Sir,
Had the cheek to mutter 'Blast you!' to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir."
Number One, his face is ashen and his knees knock as he runs
(A curious phenomenon quite rare in Number Ones);