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Updated: May 9, 2025
What the hell are you doing?" "Coming, Sir!" I sung out. "Shall I stay?" I asked definitely. "Garn!" he said. "Don't yer fret yerself. I'll tike er bloomin' piy-diy out of 'er. Blarst 'em. I ain't funky of 'em." I went. That was the last word Williams spoke to anyone living. I reached the decks, and tailed on to the haulyards.
The passengers consisted of six Englishmen, and they had been continually grumbling about the slow time that was being made by the stages, saying that the farther they got East the slower they went. "These blarsted 'eathens don't know hanything habout staging, hany-'ow," remarked one of them. "Blarst me bloody heyes! they cawn't stage in this country as we do in Hingland, you know," said another.
Most fortunately for himself, Oliver did not want any coffee, so merely giving the man a gruff "No, thank you," he rose and went on deck. The moment he was out of the cabin Chard appeared, and looked inquiringly at the second steward. "'E won't 'ave any, blarst him!" said the man, speaking in a whisper, for Latour, the chief steward, was in his cabin, which was abreast the trade-room.
"She's movin'!" cried a voice from the crowd on the wharf side. "Watch 'er! Watch 'er!" A dull English cheer rippled over the waterfront. "Blarst if I see why she moves!" marveled an onlooker. "That tug looks like a water bug 'itched to a 'ouse-boat it's hunreasonable!" "Aye, but they're tur'ble stout, them tugs be," argued a companion. "It's hunreasonable, just the same, 'Enry!"
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