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Aye! Ye Sorry Lot!

At this moment the lee door of the forecastle swung violently open, letting in a gust
of cold, damp air, and with it the burly form of the boatswain, clad from head to foot in
shining yellow oilskins. Shaking himself like a big dog, be seated himself on the water
cask, and produced a short, black clay pipe, into which he proceeded to suck the flame of
the slush-lamp. Ye’11 want to » ——puff— be ready »—puff— to come on deck
»—puff— at four bells, bhoys,»—puff, puff,— he said. The ould man’s give ordhers
»—puff, puff— to shtow the mains’l —puff, puff, puff.

Curses of the most elaborate and far-reaching nature greeted this statement—curses
that not only took in every particular part of the captain’s anatomy, but which included
four generations of a very respectable family. The boatswain listened to it all with an
expressionless face, and when the storm had subsided he spoke again.

’T is the grea-at lot av saymin you are! Sure, an’ ut’s cyap’ens an’ commodores an’
admirals iv’ry wan av you w’u’d be this minut’ if you had your rights! Begad! but ut ’s
maany’s the owner w’u’d l’ave home an’ wife for the likes av you to roon his ships! An'
to think that min av your ability is only gettin’ two poun’ tin a month! Man, man, but
ut’s scandalous!