‘Your honour, by the holy eleven, I took aim at the brig. There’s something wrong with the pace.’
‘Wrong with the piece. What d’ye mean?’
‘It was cast with a kink, sorr; it dhroops amidships and shoots as Mister Crimp’s larboard oye peeps, your honour, though loike his oye it manes well.’
‘Nonsense,’ I cried, ‘you must have covered the boat to hit it.’
‘By all that’s sacred then,’ cried the man, ‘I had the natest observation of the brig’s maintopmasht as ever oye could bring the muzzle of a pace to soight. The gun was cast with a kink, sorr.’
‘My belief is that you’re utterly ignorant of guns,’ cried Wilfrid. ‘The concussion was fierce enough to shake the yacht to pieces.’
‘’Twas your honour’s design to froighten ’em.’
‘But not to murder them, you dolt!’ shouted Wilfrid. ‘D’ye know I could have you hanged for this.’
‘It was but a haythen Portuguay, sorr,’ answered the fellow, preserving his ramrod-like posture and his unwinking stare.