“‘Tattoo marks!’ ses Ginger.
“‘That’s the strong p’int,’ ses Sam. ‘’Er boy ’ad a sailor dancing a ’ornpipe on ’is left wrist, an’ a couple o’ dolphins on his right. On ’is chest ’e ’ad a full-rigged ship, and on ’is back between ’is shoulder-blades was the letters of ’is name—C.R.S.: Charles Robert Smith.’
“‘Well, you silly old fool,’ ses Ginger, starting up in a temper, ‘that spiles it all. I ain’t got a mark on me.’
“Old Sam smiles at ’im and pats him on the shoulder. ‘That’s where you show your want of intelleck, Ginger,’ he ses, kindly. ‘Why don’t you think afore you speak? Wot’s easier than to ’ave ’em put on?’
“‘Wot?’ screams Ginger. ‘Tattoo me! Spile my skin with a lot o’ beastly blue marks! Not me, not if I know it. I’d like to see anybody try it, that’s all.’
“‘Wot?’ screams Ginger. ‘Tattoo me?”
“He was that mad ’e wouldn’t listen to reason, and, as old Sam said, ’e couldn’t have made more fuss if they’d offered to skin ’im alive, an’ Peter Russet tried to prove that a man’s skin was made to be tattooed on, or else there wouldn’t be tattooers; same as a man ’ad been given two legs so as ’e could wear trousers. But reason was chucked away on Ginger, an’ ’e wouldn’t listen to ’em.
“They started on ’im agin next day, but all Sam and Peter could say didn’t move ’im, although Sam spoke so feeling about the joy of a pore widder woman getting ’er son back agin arter all these years that ’e nearly cried.