(He lied, of course. And his words have not been given
literally. They were not beautiful words.)

McGarver, the straw-boss, would always lie awake to enjoy a good
brisk indecent story, but he liked Wrennie's admiration of him,
so, lunging with his bull-like head out of his berth, he snorted:

"Hey, you, Pete, it's time to pound your ear. Cut it out."

Wrennie called down, sternly, "I ain't no theological student,
Pete, and I don't mind profanity, but I wish you wouldn't talk
like a garbage-scow."

"Hey, Poicy, did yuh bring your dictionary?" Pete bellowed to
Tim, two feet distant from him. To Wrennie, "Say, Gladys, ain't
you afraid one of them long woids like, t'eological, will turn
around and bite you right on the wrist?"

"Dry up!" irritatedly snapped a Canadian.

"Aw, cut it out, you--," groaned another.

"Shut up," added McGarver, the straw-boss. "Both of you."
Raging: "Gwan to bed, Pete, or I'll beat your block clean off.
I mean it, see? _Hear me?_"

Yes, Pete heard him. Doubtless the first officer on the bridge
heard, too, and perhaps the inhabitants of Newfoundland. But
Pete took his time in scratching the back of his neck and