... twenty-nine," he said, counting a row of
notches. "Thirty days hout t'morrer, an' th' 'dead 'orse' is hup t'
day, sons!"

"'Dead 'oss' hup t' dye? 'Ow d'ye mike that aht?" said 'Cockney'
Hicks, a man of importance, now promoted to bo'sun. "Fust Sunday we
wos in Channel, runnin' dahn th' Irish lights, worn't it?"

"Aye!"

"Secon' Sunday we wos routin' abaht in them strong southerly win's,
hoff th' Weste'n Isles?"

"That's so," said Martin, patting his yard-stick, "Right-o!"

"Third Sunday we 'ad th' trides, runnin' south; lawst Sunday wos fourth
Sunday hout, an' this 'ere's Friday--'peasoup-dye,' ain't it? 'Ow d'ye
mike a month o' that? 'Dead 'oss' ain't up till t'morrer, I reckon!"

"Well, ye reckons wrong, bo'sun! Ye ain't a-countin' of th' day wot we
lay at anchor at th' Tail o' th' Bank!"

"Blimy, no! I'd forgotten that dye!"

"No! An' I tell ye th' 'dead 'orse' is hup, right enuff. I don't make
no mistake in my log.... Look at 'ere," pointing to a cross-cut at the
head of his stick. "That's the dye wot we lay at anchor--w'en you an'
me an' the rest ov us wos proper drunk. 'Ere we starts away," turning
to another side; "them up strokes is 'ead win's, an' them downs is
fair; 'ere's where we got that blow hoff th' Weste'n Isles," putting
his finger-nail into a deep cleft; "that time we carries away th'
topmas' stays'l sheet; an' 'ere's th' trade win's wot we're 'avin' now!
... All k'rect, I tell ye. Ain't no mistakes 'ere, sons!" He put the
stick aside the better to fill his pipe.

"Vat yo' calls dem holes in de top, Martin, _zoone_? Dot vass
sometings, aind't id?"

Vootgert, the Belgian, picked the stick up, turning it over carelessly.

Martin snatched it away.

"A course it's 'sometings,' ye Flemish 'og! If ye wants to know
pertiklar, them 'oles is two p'un' o' tebaccer wot I had sence I come
aboard. Don't allow no Ol' Man t' do _me_ in the bloomin' hye w'en it
comes t' tottin' th' bill! ... I'll watch it! I keeps a good tally ov
wot I gets, tho' I can't read nor write like them young 'know-alls'
over there" (Martin had no love for 'brassbounders'), "them wot orter
be aft in their proper place, an' not sittin' 'ere, chinnin' wi' th'
sailormen!"

"Who's chinnin'?" said Jones, Martin's particular enemy. "Ain't said a
word! Not but what I wanted to ... sittin' here, listenin' to a lot of
bally rot about ye'r dead horses an' logs an' that!"

Jones rose with a great pantomime of