''Er?' he queried in answer to the leading seaman's remark, shivering and looking rather puzzled. ''Oo?'
He was a puny, undersized little rat of a man, with a pallid, freckled face and a crop of sandy hair. It was early winter, and the piercing wind bit through to his very marrow, while the drizzling rain had already found its way through his oilskin and down the back of his neck. It was distinctly chilly. The tip of his nose and his fingers were blue with cold, and he looked, and felt, supremely miserable.
He repeated his question as the leading seaman executed a few violent steps of a clog-dance, and flapped his arms like an elderly penguin to restore his circulation. ''Er?' he said at last, pausing for breath and seemingly rather surprised at Martin's ignorance. 'That there's the _Belligerent_. That's the ship we're goin' to join--you're goin' to join, that is.'
'That 'er?' Martin ejaculated, gazing with awe at the battleship's great bulk. 'That 'er? Gor' blimy!' He seemed rather appalled.
The leading seaman tittered and sucked his teeth. 'Lor'!' he laughed, not unkindly, noticing the anxiety in the youngster's eyes, 'you needn't look like that. They can't eat yer; leastways not if you be'aves yourself they won't. 'Er commander's a werry nice gentleman; 'e wus shipmates along o' me in th' _Duncan_ up the Straits[1] six year ago. 'E wus a lootenant then, an' a bit of a flyer; but 'e's a gent so long as you don't get in the rattle.'[2]
He paused and eyed the ordinary seaman with the hand-cart, who had released the shafts and was swinging his arms. ''Ere, young fella, not so much of it!' he ordered abruptly, quite forgetting that he had called the halt himself. 'Get a move on yer! You ain't no bloomin' baronite drivin' your own motor-car, to stop 'ere an' stop there has you thinks fit. You ain't wheelin' no perishin' whelk-barrer down Commercial Road neither. Show a leg, me lad!'
The ordinary seaman seized the shafts, and the procession moved forward.
Ten minutes later Martin, with his bag and hammock, was standing on the quarterdeck of his Majesty's first-class pre-Dreadnought battleship _Belligerent_. The leading seaman and the man with the hand-cart were already on their way back to the Royal Naval Barracks, and Pincher Martin, alone, for the first time, felt horribly nervous and uncomfortable. He had been received with scant courtesy or interest by the marine corporal of the watch, who had told him to remain where he was while he fetched a ship's corporal; and now, eyed critically by the grinning side-boy and the messenger, youngsters like himself, who made facetious, rather uncomplimentary, and very audible remarks about his personal appearance, he shivered and waited.