Mrs. Inigo’s door was shut, so he passed out to the deck. He wished to avoid Captain Cammock, who walked the poop above him. Mr. Cottrill, who had the deck at the moment, was forward with the boatswain, setting up the fore-backstays with the watch. The only person with whom he could converse was Mr. Iles, the second mate, that smart young seaman, who now sat on an inverted wash-deck tub, in the lee scuppers, mending a pair of trousers which he had taken off for the occasion. Puffs of wind sometimes lifted his shirt skirts, displaying his little wiry legs. The sailmaker, who sat on the booby-hatch, putting a new clue into a royal, was telling him, at each puff, to mind the girls didn’t see. “By gee,” said Mr. Iles, by no means a bashful man, “I wouldn’t mind if der girls did see.” “They don’t come around so much when a man gets married,” said the sailmaker. “They get shot in the beam with a wet rag.” “B’gee,” said Mr. Iles, “I don’t know, Sails. B’gee, I seen some married men as didn’t do much shootin’.” “It’s the missus does the shooting,” said Sails. “I know there’s not many girls come whistling after me since I got married. But you young fellers,” said Sails, “you think of nothing else, I do believe, except the gells outside Paddy’s.” “B’gee,” said Mr. Iles. “Dere was one of them girls outside Paddy’s. She was a bute, all right, all right. She’d got a fine skin on her. Gee. Hey. Like old sail.” “They don’t last at it,” said Sails. “Five years, they say. Then they get froze, down Lavender Pond way. That washes the poor creatures’ rooge off. But there’s not many thinks that when they come ashore, Mr. Iles. Nor you don’t think it.” “B’gee,” said Mr. Iles, as he stretched his leg out into the sunlight. “That’s a leg all right, all right,” he said. “B’gee, Sails, I don’t t’ink you could show a leg, like what that leg is.” “I got a leg as I’d show alongside of any man’s,” said Sails. “Let’s see your leg,” said Mr. Iles. “B’gee, Sails, you’re one of dese consumptive fellers. You ain’t got no legs.” “I got a better leg’n you got,” said Sails, very touchy, like all sailors, on the subject of his physical strength. “You look here,” he said. “Mr. Stukeley,” cried Mr. Iles, standing up excitedly. “B’gee, sir, I want to show legs with Sails here. Will you be the judge between us?” Stukeley had seen similar contests in his visits to the head to be pumped on; but he had hardly expected to see an officer’s vanity put to the touch upon the quarter-deck. “It’ll annoy old Brandyface,” he thought. “Yes,” he answered, “I’ll be the judge. But don’t shock old Brandyface on the poop there.” He said this in the hearing of Captain Cammock, who paused at the poop-rail, looked down on their preparations with an unmoved face, and then turned to walk aft. “B’gee,” said Mr. Iles. “It’s a pity our girls ain’t here. Dere’s some girls’d die laughing to see us. Come on, Sails.”