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'Ere you come, a pore mis'rable specimen of 'uman scum, an' I tykes yer into my galley an' treats yer 'ansom, an' this is wot I get for it. Nex' time you can go to 'ell, say I, an' I've a good mind to give you what-for anyw'y." So saying, he put up his fists and started for me. To my shame be it, I cowered away from the blow and ran out the galley door. What else was I to do?
Mary Ellen was wild for a dance, she said. "Get up and 'ave a gow, then," encouraged Mr. Watlin, "you and 'Arry there!" But she, for some reason, would not, and Harry was not urgent. "I can play da fiddle a little," said Tony, as our artist paused for a rest. Mr. Watlin clapped him good-humouredly on the shoulder. "Go to it then, my boy, give us your little tune! I'm out of form tonight, anyw'y."
The great tea-pot was still in my hand. I limped to the galley and handed it to him. But he was consumed with indignation, real or feigned. "Gawd blime me if you ayn't a slob. Wot 're you good for anyw'y, I'd like to know? Eh? Wot 're you good for any'wy? Cawn't even carry a bit of tea aft without losin' it. Now I'll 'ave to boil some more.
Forgot his nyme an' all. I s'y, how abaout him, anyw'y?" "Boys," said Ryder, "I'll tell you. Nickerson yes, I know the yarns about him. It was this way y'see, I ain't keeping anything from you, boys. Two years ago he was a Methody preacher in Santa Clara.
There were orders and counter-orders, alarums and excursions. Through them all Tommy kept his balance and his air of cheery unconcern, but he wished that he might be "struck pink" if he knew "wot we was a-doin' of anyw'y." Our ideas of the tactical situation were decidedly vague.
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