“Thomas Pim,” he answered.
“Come, that’s short enough, anyhow,” I observed.
“Yes; but when I first came aboard, the mess declared it was too long, so they cut off the ‘h’ and the ‘as’ and ‘m’ and called me Tom Pi; but even then they were not content, for they further docked it of its fair proportions, and decided that I was to be named Topi, though generally I’m called simply Pi.”
“Do you mind it?” I asked.
“Not a bit,” he answered. “It suits my size, I confess; for, to tell you the truth, I’m older than I look, and have been three years at sea.”
“I thought you had only just joined,” I remarked, for my companion was, as I have just said, a very little fellow, scarcely reaching up to my shoulder. On examining his countenance more minutely, I observed that it had a somewhat old look.
“Though I’m little I’m good, and not ashamed of my size or my name either,” he said. “When bigger men are knocked over, I’ve a chance of escaping. I can stow myself away where others can’t get in their legs; and when I go aloft or take a run on shore, I’ve less weight to carry,—so has the steed I ride. When I go with others to hire horses, I generally manage to get the best from the stable-keeper.”
“Yes, I see that you have many advantages over bigger fellows,” I said.
“I’m perfectly contented with myself now I’ve found that out, but I confess that at first I didn’t like being laughed at and having remarks made about my name and my size. I have grown slightly since then, and no one observes now that I’m an especially little fellow.”
Tom spoke for some time on the same subject.