“Is he right?” asked the little man eagerly.
“Not by nearly four hours,” said I.
“If he aint furder out it’s all one,” exclaimed the other sailor.
“Me and my mate,” said the little man, “has had a good many arguments about the time while we’ve been locked up below, but I think my tally’ll come out right.”
“How long have you been locked up below according to your tally?” said I.
“This here’s a Wednesday, aint it?” he inquired, once again straining the moisture out of his eyes with his knuckles, and blinking at me.
“No,” said I; “it’s Thursday.”
“Nearer than you, Bobby, anyway!” he cried. “Your tally brought it to Saturday.”
“How long have you been locked up, men?”
“Why,” he exclaimed, “if this here’s a Thursday”—his voice broke like that of a youth entering manhood, as he continued—“we’ve been locked up a fortnight when it shall ha’ gone nine o’clock.”