I saw by the movements of his lips that he read little bits here and there, and now and again I would catch him stealing a glance at me, as though he had something on his mind, but was too shy to address me.
“What have you there?” said I.
“Why,” he answered, reverting to the titlepage, “something I paid a penny for just now—bought it from a chap who stood alongside a row of ’em fixed against a wall. They call it the ‘Sea Songs of Great Britain.’ It’s full of queer spelling, and it’s all about Jack, whoever he may be, if this be’n’t him,” and he pointed to the absurd straddling woodcut.
He went on reading for a short time, his pipe in his hand, and his mouth opening wider and wider, until, coming to the end of the song, he looked at me and said, “Well, I’m jiggered!”
“What’s the matter?” I inquired.
“Dibdin—Dibdin!” said he, “d’ye know anything of that gent, sir?”
“Only as the greatest nautical song-writer this country ever produced,” I replied.
“Yes,” said he, casting his eyes upon the page, “I see he is a nautical song-writer; but was he ever at sea?”
“Not as a sailor, I believe.”
“Mates,” he called out to the others, who had stopped talking and were listening to his questions, “what d’ye think of this for a nautical job? It’s called ‘My Poll and my Partner Joe;’” and he read slowly and hoarsely—