"Well, h'I don' mean to insinnivate nuffin' agin you, Jack. We h'all knows you is a real bang-up 'eavy swell when you've got your shore togs on." "I meets a genelman one time way down to Saint Louis, bigges' genelman eber I see'd, an' he gib dis chile a clout on der ear an' say, 'Get out ob my way, yo dirty nigger,'" announced Sam. "Well, 'ave you h'all done, for Gaud's syke?" inquired the cockney loftily. "Wall," said Hank slowly, "I calculate a gentleman's a cuss as is some perlite. He don't spit on the floor----" "Bedad, what does he do, thin?" broke in the astonished Pat. "Why, spits in the spittoon!" "Er course," agreed the cockney. "W'ere wos you brought h'up, Pat?" "Seein' as 'ow each member o' this 'ere committee-meetin' 's 'ad 'is sye," he went on, "h'I arise ter propose that we asts the opin'on o' Jack Derringer, h'as bein' er h'expert on the subject." "I shore seconds thet proposal," said Broncho, "though I nurses certain views tharon which no expert is goin' to stampede me out of." "Well," began Jack, as they all waited round silently, "it's a pretty big subject; but my idea of a gentleman is a clean man who minds his own business and'll go the limit for a pal--a man who plays his cards straight and keeps a stiff upper lip." "Thet ain't no gentleman, thet's a white man," exclaimed old Bedrock Ben, with a shake of his head. "Same thing, ought to be," replied Jack. "Well, see 'ere, cocky, does you mean ter tell me a man can be a genelman wivout no shiny pants nor nuffin'?" asked the astonished cockney. "Every Siwash is a gentleman when he's got his store-clothes on, 'cordin' t'you, Hollins," said Hank with contempt. "What in hell air yew broken-down gin-soakers doin' forrard? Relieve the wheel, yew scum, or I'll come an' knock yer durned ugly heads off." It was Black Davis on the rampage. The foc's'le head committee-meeting broke up like a swarm of disturbed ants, and as they crowded down the ladder the cockney called out: "There's a genelman for ye, byes, a real genelman." CHAPTER VIII "ON THE FOC'S'LE HEAD" One Sunday afternoon in the south-east trades the foc's'le indulged itself in another of those excitable debates which sailors on deep-water ships love so much. It was a superb South Pacific day, with a glinting sea and a sky full of those fluffy white billowy clouds which painters so delight to seat cherubs upon. The upper strata of these sheep-backs moved faster than the lower, as if engaged in a heavenly steeplechase, signifying an increase of wind. On the _Higgins_, for a wonder, peace reigned, for the old man and Black Davis were both below taking a "stretch off the land," whilst the bosun held the deck. Forward both watches were assembled on the foc's'le head--some stretched on their backs with eyes shut, others propped up against the capstan or bitts pretending to sew or read.