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Updated: June 21, 2025
HE. Ah, well, you've made me smart enough now, you boss-eyed old cow, you! SHE. Cow! am I? Ah, I suppose that's what makes me so fond of a calf, you German sausage on legs! You HE. Go along. Your mother brought you up on sour milk. SHE. Yah! They weaned you on thistles, didn't they?
At my elbow a man old and grizzled and dirty is turning back roll upon roll of his wadded garments, and ridding it of as many as he can find of the insects with which it is infested. A slobbering, boss-eyed cretin chops wood at my side, and when I rise to try a snap on the women and the children they hide behind the walls.
The man at the prow remained rigid as a statue, and Coleman resumed his whispered invocation. 'Bend to it, you devils! One! two! three! Morton, don't go to sleep, you swine! Ryan! Tadvers, you herrin'-gutted, boss-eyed son of a barber's ape, are you rowin' or spoonin' up hot soup? Pull, men! Huh! That's a clinker! Huh! Shift her! Huh! May the fiend singe you for a drowsy pack o' sea-cows! Pull!
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