"It's 'ardly a time for jokin'," remonstrated the steward.
"I don't know that I said anything funny," observed Cornish, warmly.
"Well, then, wot do you mean by talking o' the West Hindie Islands?" cried the boatswain.
"Wot do I mean?" retorted the other; "why, wot I says. Here we are off the coast of Floridy——"
"Off the coast o' your grandmother! Shut up, mate, and let Mr. Royle speak. You know nothen about it."
"The Bermudas are nearer to hand than the West Indies," I continued, not choosing to explain. "What we have to do, then, the moment we can use our legs, is to haul the ship round. How is the wind now? N.N.W. Well, she will lie properly. And as soon as ever it comes daybreak, we must run up a signal of distress, and keep it flying. What more can we do?"
"I suppose," said the boatswain, doubtfully, sucking so hard at his pipe that it glowed like a steamer's red light under his nose, "you wouldn't like to wenture on a run to the English Channel, Mr. Royle? It would be airning some kind o' fame, and perhaps a trifle o' money from the owners, if it wur to git about that three hands—well, I'll ax the steward's pardon, and say four—that four hands brought this here blessed ship and her walleyable cargo out o' a rigular knock-down mutiny, all aways up the Atlantic Ocean, into the Henglish Channel, and landed her safe in the West Hindie Docks. I never see my name in print in my life——"
"What's your true name, Mr. Bo'sun?" inquired the steward.
"Joshua, or Jo Forward, young feller; sometimes called Forrard, sometimes Jo, and on Sundays Mister."
"I know a Forward as lives at Blackwall," said the steward.