"So you've found something better to talk about? What's that, I'd
like to know?"
"Why, there's a press-gang out," says Treleaven. "But there! a fellow
with your shaped legs don't take no interest in press-gangs, I
reckon."
"Ah, to be sure," says the little man--but he winced and uncrossed his
legs all the same, feeling sorry he'd made 'em so conspicuous--"ah,
to be sure, a press-gang! I met 'em; but, as it happens, that's no
change of subject."
"Us don't feel in no mood to stomach your fun to-night, Hancock; and
so I warn 'ee," put in Pengelly, who had been drinking more than
usual and spoke thick. "If you've a meaning up your sleeve, you'd
best shake it out."
Hancock chuckled. "You fellows have no invention," he said; "no
resource at all, as I may call it. You stake on this race, and, when
the women beat you, you lie down and squeal. Well, you may thank me
that I'm built different: I bide my time, but when the clock strikes
I strike with it. I never did approve of women dressing man-fashion:
but what's the use of making a row in the house? 'The time is bound
to come,' said I to myself; and come it has. If you want a good
story cut short, I met the press-gang just now and turned 'em on to
raid the 'Sailor's Return': and if by to-morrow the women down there
have any crow over us, then I'm a Dutchman, that's all!"
"Bejimbers, Hancock," says Treleaven, standing up and looking uneasy,
"you carry it far, I must say!"
"Far? A jolly good joke, _I_ should call it," answers Hancock,
making bold to cross his legs again.
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