“‘And he knocked us about,’ ses Bob, with a groan. ‘I’m sore all over, and as for my feet—’
“‘Wot’s the matter with them?’ ses Joe.
“‘Trod on,’ ses Bob, very short. ‘If my bare feet was trod on once they was a dozen times. I’ve never ’ad such a doing in all my life. He fought like a devil. I thought he’d ha’ murdered Bill.’
“‘I wish ’e ’ad,’ ses Bill, with a groan; ‘my face is bruised and cut about cruel. I can’t bear to touch it.’
“‘Do you mean to say the two of you couldn’t settle ’im?’ ses Joe, staring.
“‘I mean to say we got a hiding,’ ses Bill. ‘We got close to him fust start off and got our feet trod on. Arter that it was like fighting a windmill, with sledge-hammers for sails.’
“He gave a groan and turned over in his bunk, and when we asked him some more about it, he swore at us. They both seemed quite done up, and at last they dropped off to sleep just as they was, without even stopping to wash the black off or to undress themselves.
“I was awoke rather early in the morning by the sounds of somebody talking to themselves, and a little splashing of water. It seemed to go on a long while, and at last I leaned out of my bunk and see Bill bending over a bucket and washing himself and using bad langwidge.
“‘Wot’s the matter, Bill?’ ses Joe, yawning and sitting up in bed.
“‘My skin’s that tender, I can hardly touch it,’ ses Bill, bending down and rinsing ’is face. ‘Is it all orf?’