“Jump isn't the word.”
“Sir!” thundered Green, and “Sir” the newspaper man corrected himself.
“Got no story to spiel about being shanghaied, son?”
“Would it do any good, sir?”
“Not unless you're aching to get what that son of a Dutchman got. See here, sport! You walk the chalk line, and Bully Green and you'll get along fine. I'm a lamb, I am, when I'm not riled. But get gay—and you'll have a hectic time. I'll rough you till you're shark-food. Get that through your teeth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now you trot down to the fo'c'sle and dive into them slops you find there. You got just three minutes to do the dress-suit act.”
Jeff, as he passed below, could hear the great bull voice roaring orders to the men. “Set y'r topsails! Jam 'er down hard, Johnnie Dago! Stand by, you lubbers!... Now then, easy does it... easy!”
Within the allotted three minutes Farnum had climbed into the foul oilskin coat and tarry breeches he found below and was ready for orders.
“Clap on to that windlass, sport! No loafing here.... Hump y'rself. D'ye hear me? Hump?”