The Marine cautiously raised his head a few inches. As Mr. Pyecroft said, he was sober—after some R.M.L.I. fashion of his own devising. “’Op bounds in like a startled anteloper, carryin’ ’is signal-slate at the ready. The old man was settin’ down to ’is bountiful platter—not like you an’ me, without anythin’ more in sight for an ’ole night an’ ’arf a day. Talkin’ about food—” “No! No! No!” cried Pyecroft, kicking again. “What about ’Op?” I thought the Marine’s ribs would have snapped, but he merely hiccuped. “Oh, ’im! ’E ’ad it written all down on ’is little slate—I think—an’ ’e shoves it under the old man’s nose. ‘Shut the door,’ says ’Op. ‘For ’Eavin’s sake shut the cabin door!’ Then the old man must ha’ said somethin’ ’bout irons. ‘I’ll put ’em on, Sir, in your very presence,’ says ’Op, ‘only ’ear my prayer,’ or—words to that ’fect…. It was jus’ the same with me when I called our Sergeant a bladder-bellied, lard-’eaded, perspirin’ pension-cheater. They on’y put on the charge-sheet ‘words to that effect.’ Spoiled the ’ole ’fect.” “’Op! ’Op! ’Op! What about ’Op?” thundered Pyecroft. “’Op? Oh, shame thing. Words t’ that ’fect. Door shut. Nushin’ more transphired till ’Op comes out—nose exshtreme angle plungin’ fire or—or words ‘that effect. Proud’s parrot. ‘Oh, you prou’ old parrot,’ I says.” Mr. Glass seemed to slumber again. “Lord! How a little moisture disintegrates, don’t it? When we had ship’s theatricals off Vigo, Glass ’ere played Dick Deadeye to the moral, though of course the lower deck wasn’t pleased to see a leatherneck interpretin’ a strictly maritime part, as you might say. It’s only his repartees, which ’e can’t contain, that conquers him. Shall I resume my narrative?” Another drink was brought on this hint, and Mr. Pyecroft resumed.