'
"Retallick, our chief cook, an' a Carth'lic, was the on'y one any way near
grateful; bein' short-'anded in the galley. He annexes the blighter by the
left ear an' right foot an' sets him to work peelin' potatoes. So then,
this Antonio that was avoidin' the conscription--"
"_Sub_scription, you pink-eyed matlow!" said the Marine, with the face of
a stone Buddha, and whimpered sadly: "Pye don't see any fun in it at all."
"_Con_scription--come to his illegitimate sphere in Her Majesty's Navy,
an' it was just then that Old 'Op, our Yeoman of Signals, an' a fastidious
joker, made remarks to me about 'is hands.
"'Those 'ands,' says 'Op, 'properly considered, never done a day's honest
labour in their life. Tell me those hands belong to a blighted Portugee
manual labourist and I won't call you a liar, but I'll say you an' the
Admiralty are pretty much unique in your statements.' 'Op was always a
fastidious joker--in his language as much as anything else. He pursued 'is
investigations with the eye of an 'awk outside the galley. He knew better
than to advance line-head against Retallick, so he attacked _ong eshlong_,
speakin' his remarks as much as possible into the breech of the starboard
four point seven, an' 'ummin' to 'imself. Our chief cook 'ated 'ummin'.
'What's the matter of your bowels?' he says at last, fistin' out the mess-
pork agitated like. "'Don't mind me,' says 'Op.
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