“You’re afraid,” said Jem tauntingly; “you’ll never make one of us. ’It ’im; I won’t let him hurt you.”
Thus aroused, the boy, first directing Dobbs’ attention to his stomach by a curious duck of the head, much admired as a feint in his neighbourhood, struck him in the face. The next moment the forecastle was in an uproar and Ralph prostrate on Dobbs’ knees, frantically reminding Jem of his promise.
“All right, I won’t let him ’urt you,” said Jem consolingly.
“But he is hurting me,” yelled the boy. “He’s hurting me now.”
“Well, wait till I get ’im ashore,” said Jem, “his old woman won’t know him when I’ve done with him.”
The boy’s reply to this was a torrent of shrill abuse, principally directed to Jem’s facial shortcomings.
“Now don’t get rude,” said the seaman, grinning.
“Squint-eyes,” cried Ralph fiercely.
“When you’ve done with that ’ere young gentleman, Dobbs,” said Jem, with exquisite politeness, “I should like to ’ave ’im for a little bit to teach ’im manners.”
“’E don’t want to go,” said Dobbs, grinning, as Ralph clung to him. “He knows who’s kind to him.”