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Tim Rokens said stoutly, "He'd like to see the man as 'ud do it"; under the impression that that was the legal term for being kicked, or otherwise maltreated; and on being informed that the word signified merely an examination as to the extent of his knowledge of the facts of the case, he said quietly, "Fire away!"
Hard work, violent physical exertion, and excessive heat were Rokens' delight, and, whatever may be the opinion of flabby-muscled, flat individuals, there can be no reasonable doubt that Rokens meant it, when he added, emphatically, "It's fuss-rate; tip-top; A1 on Lloyd's, that's a fact!"
I'm no lawyer that's a fact but I'm a man; an' wot's a man? it ain't a bundle o' flesh an' bones on two legs, with a turnip a-top o't, is it?" "Be no manes," murmured Briant, with an approving nod. "Cer'nly not," remarked Dick Barnes. "I second that motion." "Good," continued Rokens.
Mr Rokens had wisdom enough to give forth the last part of his speech in a muttered tone, for the youth was evidently a favourite with the captain, as was shown by the hearty manner in which he shook him by the hand.
"I'll tell ye wot it is, cap'en," said Tim Rokens, rising up, taking off his cap, and clearing his throat, as if he were about to make a studied oration. "We've not none on us got no suggestions to make wotsomdiver.
"What d'ye say to dig a hole and stick the things in it?" yelled Rokens. "We're not fit," screamed Phil. "Let's try," shrieked the other. To this Briant replied by falling on his knees on the lee side of the goods, and digging with his hands in the sand most furiously. Into this they stowed all the biscuit casks and a few other articles, and covered them up with sand.
This view of the question seemed so just to the men, and so full of incontrovertible wisdom, that it was received with something like a murmur of applause. "You're a true philosopher, Rokens. Now Doctor Hopley, I must beg you to give us your opinion, as a medical man, on this knotty subject," said the captain, smiling.
"I do believe," remarked Rokens, looking gravely at his shipmate, "that the feller's had an attack of the mollygrumbles, an's got better all of a suddint." "No, massa, dat not it. But me willin' to go wid you now to de sea." "Eh? willin' to go? Why, Nippi-Too-Cumble, wot a rum customer you are, to be sure!" "Yis, massa," rejoined the negro.
"Moreover, we tried to git round to the hut, but as we wos twice nearly blowed away w'en we tried for to double the point, we 'greed to stay where we wos till the back o' the gale should be broke. But, now, let's hear wot's happened." "The hut's gone," said Gurney, in reply. "Blowed clean over our heads to I dun know where." "Blowed away?" cried Rokens and Briant, in consternation.
"Well, it's so long ago since I sung that song, shipmates," replied Gurney, "that I've bin and forgot it; but Tim Rokens knows it; where's Rokens?" "He's in the watch below." In sea parlance, the men whose turn it is to take rest after their long watch on deck are somewhat facetiously said to belong to the "watch below." "Ah! that's a pity; so we can't have that 'ere partickler song.
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