“Ho, is it?” said Bill. “Beggin' of your pardon, an' apologizing for a-contradictin' of you, but it's mine. You haven't got no bunk.”
“I slept in it last night,” said the captain, conclusively.
“I know you did,” said Bill, “but that was all my kind-'artedness.”
“And 'arf a quid, Bill,” a voice reminded him.
“And 'arf a quid,” assented Bill, graciously, “and I'm very much obliged to you, mate, for the careful and tidy way in which you've cleaned up arter your-self.”
The captain eyed him. Many years of command at sea had given him a fine manner, and force of habit was for a moment almost too much for Bill and his friends. But only for a moment.
“I'm going to keep this bunk,” said the captain, deliberately.
“No, you ain't, mate,” said Bill, shaking his head, “don't you believe it. You're nobody down here; not even a ordinary seaman. I'm afraid you'll 'ave to clean a place for yourself on the carpet. There's a nice corner over there.”
“When I get back,” said the furious captain, “some of you will go to gaol for last night's work.”
“Don't be hard on us,” said a mocking voice, “we did our best. It ain't our fault that you look so ridikerlously young, that we took you for your own son.”