“‘Those ’ands,’ says ’Op, ‘properly considered, never done a day’s honest labour in their life. Tell me those hands belong to a blighted Portugee manual labourist and I won’t call you a liar, but I’ll say you an’ the Admiralty are pretty much unique in your statements.’ ’Op was always a fastidious joker—in his language as much as anything else. He pursued ’is investigations with the eye of an ’awk outside the galley. He knew better than to advance line-head against Retallick, so he attacked _ong eshlong_, speakin’ his remarks as much as possible into the breech of the starboard four point seven, an’ ’ummin’ to ’imself. Our chief cook ’ated ’ummin’. ‘What’s the matter of your bowels?’ he says at last, fistin’ out the mess-pork agitated like. “‘Don’t mind me,’ says ’Op. ‘I’m only a mildewed buntin’-tosser,’ ’e says: ‘but speakin’ for my mess, I do hope,’ ’e says, ‘you ain’t goin’ to boil your Portugee friend’s boots along o’ that pork you’re smellin’ so gay!’ “‘Boots! Boots! Boots!’ says Retallick, an’ he run round like a earwig in a alder-stalk. ‘Boots in the galley,’ ’e says. ‘Cook’s mate, cast out an’ abolish this cutter-cuddlin’ abori_gine’s_ boots!’” “They was hove overboard in quick time, an’ that was what ’Op was lyin’ to for. As subsequently transpired. “‘Fine Arab arch to that cutter-cuddler’s hinstep,’ he says to me. ‘Run your eye over it, Pye,’ ’e says. ‘Nails all present an’ correct,’ ’e says. ‘Bunion on the little toe, too,’ ’e says; ‘which comes from wearin’ a tight boot. What do _you_ think?’ “‘Dook in trouble, per’aps,’ I says. ‘He ain’t got the hang of spud-skinnin’.’ No more he ’ad. ’E was simply cannibalisin’ ’em. “‘I want to know what ’e ’as got the ’ang of,’ says ’Op, obstructed-like. ‘Watch ’im,’ ’e says. ‘These shoulders were foreign-drilled somewhere.’ ‘“When it comes to “Down ’ammicks!” which is our naval way o’ goin’ to bye-bye, I took particular trouble over Antonio, ’oo had ’is ’ammick ’ove at ’im with general instructions to sling it an’ be sugared. In the ensuin’ melly I pioneered him to the after-’atch, which is a orifice communicatin’ with the after-flat an’ similar suites of apartments. He havin’ navigated at three fifths power immejit ahead o’ me, _I_ wasn’t goin’ to volunteer any assistance, nor he didn’t need it.’ “‘Mong Jew!’ says ’e, sniffin’ round. An’ twice more ‘Mong Jew!’—which is pure French. Then he slings ’is ’ammick, nips in, an’ coils down. ‘Not bad for a Portugee conscript,’ I says to myself, casts off the tow, abandons him, and reports to ’Op.