I once knew a chap,
skipper of the _Flower of the Ocean_, who could drink a hogshead of
beer an' be as sober as a judge except in one leg, an' that was a
wooden one."
She laughed. It was impossible to be vexed with him.
"You have met some very remarkable shipmasters, if all you say be
true," she cried.
"Sailors are queer folk, believe me. That same brig, _Flower of the
Ocean_, an' a pretty flower she was, too--all tar an' coal-dust, with a
perfume that would poison a rat--put into Grimsby one day, an' the
crowd went ashore. They kicked up a shindy with some bar-loungers, an'
the fur flew. When the police came, old Peg-leg, the skipper, you
know, was the only man left in the place, havin' unshipped his crutch
for the fight. 'What have you bin a-doin' of here--throwin' grapes
about?' asked the peeler, gazin' at the floor, suspicious-like.
'Grapes,' said Dot-an'-carry-one, 'them ain't grapes. Them's
eyeballs!' Another time--"
"Mr. Boyle!" shrieked Elsie, and fled.
"Huh!" he grunted. "Off before the wind when she hears a Sunday-school
yarn like that. Wonder what she 'd say if I told her about the
plum-duff with beetles for Sultanas.
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