“A what?” said the skipper.
“A nero,” said the cook, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “A nero in real life, a chap wot, speaking for all for’ard, we’re proud to have aboard along with us.”
“I didn’t know he was much of a swimmer,” said the skipper, glancing curiously at a clumsily built man of middle age, who sat on the hatch glancing despondently at the side.
“No more ’e ain’t,” said the cook, “an’ that’s what makes ’im more ’eroish still in my own opinion.”
“Did he take his clothes off?” inquired the mate.
“Not a bit of it,” said the delighted cook; “not a pair of trowsis, nor even ’is ’at, which was sunk.”
“You’re a liar, cook,” said the hero, looking up for a moment.
“You didn’t take your trowsis off, George?” said the cook anxiously.
“I chucked my ’at on the pavement,” growled George, without looking up.
“Well, anyway, you went over the embankment after that pore girl like a Briton, didn’t you?” said the other.