"Look 'ere," said the man at the windlass, after a bit.
"Stop cussin'. This ain't a hurdy-gurdy, and if you expec's music
you'll have to toss us a copper."
The owner of the bricks swore worse than ever.
Round went the windlass as leisurely as might be and another
bucketful was hoisted ashore. The man on deck spat on his hands, and
broke into cheerful song:--
"Was you iver to Que-bec,
Bonnie laddie, Hieland laddie
Was you iver to Que-bec,
Rousing timber over the deck?
Hey my bonny laddie!
Wur-roo! my heart's--"
The rage of the little man found extra vent.
"Look here, Caleb Trotter," he concluded, after a full minute of
profanity, "how do you think I'm to get my living and pay a set of
lubberly dolts like you?"
Caleb paused with his hand on the windlass, and suggested
retrenchment of the halfpenny a week hitherto spent in manners.
"'Cos, you see, all this po-liteness of yourn es a'runnin' to waste,"
he explained with fine irony.
But before the next load was more than three-parts hoisted, Caleb's
patience was exhausted. What he did was simple but decisive.
He removed his hold; the handle whizzed violently round, and the
bucket of bricks descended to the hold with a crash.
"Now I tell 'ee straight.
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