“Well, d’you take it?” asked Seaman Jones of Seaman Smith.  “Better strike while the grog’s ‘ot.  A double-prick o’ baccy and a gallon o’ four-’arf, evens, on the Griller.  I ain’t never ‘eard o’ the Griller till we come ’ere, and I never ‘eard o’ t’other bloke neether—­but I ’olds by the Griller, cos of ’is name and I backs me fancy afore I sees ’em.—­Loser to ’elp the winner with the gallon.”

“Done, Bill,” replied the challenged promptly, on hearing the last condition. (He could drink as fast as Bill if he lost, and he could borrer on the baccy till it was wore out.) “Got that bloomin’ ‘igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar giddy baccy-pouch and yaller baccy you inwested in at Bombay?” he asked.  “Yus, ’Enery,” replied William, diving deeply for it.

“Then push it ‘ere, an’ likewise them bloomin’ ‘igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar giddy fag-papers you fumble wiv’.  Blimey! ain’t a honest clay good enough for yer now?  I knows wots the matter wiv you, Billy Jones!  You’ve got a weather-heye on the Quarter Deck you ’ave.  You fink you’re agoin’ to be a blighted perishin’ orficer you do!  Yus, you flat-footed matlot—­not even a blasted tiffy you ain’t, and you buys a blighted baccy-pouch and yaller baccy and fag-pipers, like a Snottie, an’ reckons you’s on the ‘igh road to be a bloomin’ Winnie Lloyd Gorgeous Orficer.  ’And ’em ’ere—­fore I’m sick.  Lootenant,—­Gunnery Jack,—­Number One,—­Commerdore!”

“Parding me, ’Enery Smiff,” returned William Jones with quiet dignity.  “In consequents o’ wot you said, an’ more in consequents o’ yore clumsy fat fingers not been used to ‘andlin’ dellikit objex, and most in consequents o’ yore been a most ontrustable thief, I will perceed to roll you a fag meself, me been ’ighly competent so fer to do.  Not but wot a fag’ll look most outer place in your silly great ugly faice.”

The other sailor watched the speaker in cold contempt as he prepared a distinctly exiguous, ill-fed cigarette.

“Harthur Handrews,” he said, turning to his other neighbour, “’Ave yew ’appened to see the Master Sail-maker or any of ’is mermydiuns ’ere-abahts, by any chawnst?”

“Nope.  ‘An don’ want.  Don’ wan’ see nothink to remind me o’

  Ther blue, ther fresh, ther hever free,
  Ther blarsted, beastly, boundin’ sea.

Not even your distressin’ face and dirty norticle apparile.  Why do you arksk sich silly questchings?”

“Willyerm Jones is amakin’ a needle for ’im.”

“As ’ow?”

“Wiv a fag-paper an’ a thread o’ yaller baccy.  ‘E’s makin’ a bloomin’ needle,” and with a sudden grab he possessed himself of the pouch, papers, and finished product of Seaman Jones’s labours and generosity.

Having pricked himself severely and painfully with the alleged cigarette, he howled with pain, cast it from him, proceeded to stick two papers together and to make an uncommonly stout, well-nourished, and bounteous cigarette.