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Paul rather liked copying the letters, but he wrote slowly, laboriously, and exceedingly badly. He was doing the fourth letter, and feeling quite busy and happy, when Mr. Pappleworth reappeared. "Now then, how'r' yer getting on? Done 'em?" He leaned over the boy's shoulder, chewing, and smelling of chlorodyne. "Strike my bob, lad, but you're a beautiful writer!" he exclaimed satirically.
"How'r yuh?" he greeted perfunctorily, as they passed each other. "Howdy," said Lance imperturbably, and rode on. Lance's eyebrows pulled together. He had no need of looking back; he had seen a great deal in the one glance he had given the stranger. He scrutinized the trail, measured with his eyes the size and the shape of the horse's footprints.
As we were reaching to windward, with all boats ready for lowering, the skipper called me aft and said, "Naow, Mr. Bullen, I cain't lower, because of this condemned leg'n arm of mine; but how'r yew goin' ter manage 'thout a harpooneer?" I suggested that if he would allow me to try Samuela, who was suffering for a chance to distinguish himself, we would "come out on top."
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