The crew bent over the side as the skiff approached, and the fare, who had been leaning back in the stern with a severely important air, rose slowly and felt in his trousers’ pocket.
“There’s a sixpence for you, my lad,” he said pompously. “Never mind about the change.”
“All right, old slack-breeches,” said the waterman with effusive good-fellowship, “up you get.”
Three pairs of hands assisted the offended fare on board, and the boy, hovering round him, slapped his legs vigorously.
“Wot are you up to?” demanded Mr. Samuel Dodds, A.B., turning on him.
“Only dusting you down, Sam,” said the boy humbly.
“You got the money all right, I s’pose, Sammy?” said Steve Martin.
Mr. Dodds nodded and slapped his breastpocket.
“Right as ninepence,” he replied genially. “I’ve been with my lawyer all the arternoon, pretty near. ’E’s a nice feller.”
“’Ow much is it, Sam?” inquired Pilchard eagerly.