"Terrible!--terrible!" he said, very slowly, and passed it on to Farmer Tresidder.
"What is it?
Where be I to look?
Aw, pore chaps--pore chaps! Man alive--but there's one movin'!" Zeb snatched the glass.
"'Pon the riggin', Zeb, just under her lee! I saw en move-- a black-headed chap, in a red shirt--" "Right, Farmer--he's clingin', too, not lashed." Zeb gave a long look.
"Darned if I won't!" he said.

"Cast over them corks, Sim Udy! How much rope have 'ee got, Jim ?" He began to strip as he spoke.
"Lashins," answered Jim Lewarne.
"Splice it up, then, an' hitch a dozen corks along it." "Zeb, Zeb!" cried his father, "What be 'bout ?" "Swimmin'," answered Zeb, who by this time had unlaced his boots.
"The notion! Look here, friends--take a look at the bufflehead! Not three months back his mother's brother goes dead an' leaves en a legacy, 'pon which, he sets up as jowter--han'some painted cart, tidy little mare, an' all complete, besides a bravish sum laid by.

A man of substance, sirs--a life o' much price, as you may say.

Aw, Zeb, my son, 'tis hard to lose 'ee, but 'tis harder still now you're in such a very fair way o' business!" "Hold thy clack, father, an' tie thicky knot, so's it won't slip." "Shan't.

I've a-took boundless pains wi' thee, my son, from thy birth up: hours I've a-spent curin' thy propensities wi' the strap--ay, hours.
D'ee think I raised 'ee up so carefully to chuck thyself away 'pon a come-by-chance furriner?
No, I didn'; an' I'll see thee jiggered afore I ties 'ee up.