"Do yer? Well, then, now you knows two. Wot I was sayin', Mr. Royle, was, I never see my name in print in my life, and I should like to see it regular wrote down in the newspapers. Lloyd's is always my weekly pennorth ashore."
He knocked the hot ashes into the palm of his hand, scrutinised it earnestly to see that there was no tobacco left in it, and tossed it away.
"A good deal, sir," said the steward, in a thin voice, "is to be said about the lady we saved. The saving of her alone, would make 'eros of us in the public mind."
"Wot do you call us—'eros?" exclaimed the boatswain.
"Yes, sir, 'eros!"
"What's the meaning of that word, Mr. Royle?—any relation to earwigs?"
"He means heroes," I replied. "Don't you, steward?"
"I did more than mean it—I said it, sir," exclaimed the steward.
"That's how the Chaneymen talk, and quarrel with you for not followin' of their sense. Wot do you think of my notion, Jim, of sailin' this wessel to England?" said the boatswain.
Cornish made no answer. I saw him, in the pale light diffused around the binnacle, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and shift uneasily on his seat. I could scarcely wonder that the boatswain's idea should make him feel uncomfortable.