As he turned, roaring like a bull, a piece of blue metal struck him above the eye, cutting the flesh to the bone.

The blood began to trickle slowly down his cheek.
Still roaring, he hopped on his crutch with incredible speed towards the Push, who stood their ground for a minute and then, with the instinct of the cur, bolted.

The sailor stopped, and shook his fist at their retreating forms, showering strange, foreign maledictions on the fleeing enemy.

It was evident that he could swear better than he could sing.
"Them wretches is givin' Froggy beans," said Mrs Swadling.
"Lucky fer 'im it's daylight, or they'd tickle 'is ribs with their boots," said Mrs Jones.
"Jonah and Chook's at the bottom o' that," said Mrs Swadling, looking hard at Mrs Yabsley.
"Ah, the devil an' 'is 'oof!" said Mrs Yabsley grimly, and was silent.
The sailor disappeared round the corner, and five minutes later the Push had slipped back, one by one, to their places under the veranda.
Mrs Jones was in the middle of a story: "'Er breath was that strong, it nearly knocked me down, an' so I sez to 'er, 'Mark my words, I'll pocket yer insults no longer, an' you in a temperance lodge.

I'll make it my bizness to go to the sekertary this very day, an' tell 'im of yer goin's on.' An' she sez...w'y, there she is again," cried Mrs Jones, as she caught the sound of a shrill voice, high-pitched and quarrelsome.