But he was consumed with indignation, real or feigned.
"Gawd blime me if you ayn't a slob.

Wot 're you good for anyw'y, I'd like to know?
Eh?
Wot 're you good for any'wy?
Cawn't even carry a bit of tea aft without losin' it.

Now I'll 'ave to boil some more.
"An' wot 're you snifflin' about ?" he burst out at me, with renewed rage.
"'Cos you've 'urt yer pore little leg, pore little mamma's darlin'." I was not sniffling, though my face might well have been drawn and twitching from the pain.

But I called up all my resolution, set my teeth, and hobbled back and forth from galley to cabin and cabin to galley without further mishap.

Two things I had acquired by my accident: an injured knee-cap that went undressed and from which I suffered for weary months, and the name of "Hump," which Wolf Larsen had called me from the poop.