He grinned in the oddest manner.
"No. Them as has wallyables may shove 'em into their pockets; but no kits 'll be allowed in the boats. We're a poor lot o' shipwrecked sailors—marineers as the newspapers calls us—come away from a ship that was settlin' under our legs afore we had the arts to leave her. We jest had time to wittol the boats and stand for the shore. We depend upon Christian kindness for 'elp; and if we falls foul o' a missionary, leave me alone to make him vurship our piety. The skipper he fell mad and jumped overboard. The chief mate he lost his life by springin' into vun o' the boats and missin' of it; and the second mate he manfully stuck to the ship for the love he bore her owners, and we pree-sume, went down with her."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, forcing a laugh; "then I am not to admit that I am the second mate, when questioned?"
He stared at me as if he were drunk, and cried, "You!" then burst into a laugh, and hit me a slap on the back.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I forgot. Of course you'll not be second mate when you get ashore."
"What then?"
"Why, a passenger—a parson—the ship's doctor. We'll tell you wot to say as we go along. Come, get us off this bloomin' coast, will you, as soon as you can," pointing to the chart. "All hands is growin' delikit with care and consarn: as Joe Sampson used to sing—
'Vith care an' consarn
Ve're a vastin' avay.'
And our nerviss systems is that wrought up with fear of our necks, that blowed if we shan't want two months o' strong physicking and prime livin' at the werry least, to make men of us agin arter we're landed."
And with a leering grin and an ugly nod he quitted the cabin.