His accent was so much broader than the spelling which I have endeavored to convey it in that I did not understand him. I believed he had applied some injurious Dutch word to me. “What do you say?” I exclaimed. “I should like to know,” said he, fingering the cuffs of his coat as though he meant to turn them up, “vhat sort of a man you vhas. Who vhas you? ’Ow vhas it you vhas half drown? ’Ow comes you into dere water? Vhas you chooked overboart? Maype you vhas a pirate? I should like to know some more about you. Vhat schip vhas yours? Have you a farder? Vere vhas you porn?” “Return to your cabin and finish your pipe and bottle,” said I. “Do not meddle with me, I beg you.” “Meddle! Vhat vhas dot? Meddle; I must hov satisfaction of my questions. My master is Mynheer Tulp. Am I to give oop my place to a half-drown man, vhen I hov agree for der voyage mit Mynheer Tulp’s consent?” He swelled his breast and roared--“No beast of an Englishman shall take dere place of Van Laar in a schip dot vhas own by Mynheer Tulp.” He then smote the table furiously with his fist, and, putting his face close to mine, he thundered out--“You are a broodelbig!” _Now_ I understood him to mean “a brutal pig,” my ear having, perhaps, been educated by his previous speech. “Jimmy,” I exclaimed, “hold the dog!” and, with the back of my hand, I slapped the Dutchman heavily on the nose. The dog growled. Jimmy sprang and clasped the creature round the neck, holding him in a vise, and grinning with every fang in his head between the dog’s ears. A fight to an English lad, himself clasping a growling dog to his heart! Match him such another joy if you can! Having struck Van Laar, I stood up and immediately pulled off my coat and waistcoat. Van Laar also undressed himself, and, while he did so, he bawled out: “I vhas sorry for you. Better for you had you never been porn. If I vhas you, I like some more to be drown or hang dan to be you.” He stripped himself to his flesh, keeping nothing but his trousers on, and stood before me like a vast mass of yellow soap. He was drenched with perspiration. Galloon barked hoarsely at him. I was almost disposed to regard this exhibition of himself as an appeal to my sensibility. He was shaped like a dugong--after the pattern, indeed, of one of the most corpulent of those interesting marine epicenes. He opposed to me a ton of infuriate flesh. How could I strike it, or rather _where_? It would be like plunging my fist into a full slush-pot. “Dere better der man dere better der mate!” he roared. “call upon Cott, if you belief in Him, to help you. Dere better der man dere better der mate! Goom on!”