"I don't mind ownin' to you, Mister Cheyne, as I mistrusted the boy to be crazy.

He talked kinder odd about money." "So he told me." "Did he tell ye anything else?
'Cause I pounded him once." This with a somewhat anxious glance at Mrs.Cheyne.
"Oh, yes," Cheyne replied.

"I should say it probably did him more good than anything else in the world." "I jedged 'twuz necessary, er I wouldn't ha' done it.

I don't want you to think we abuse our boys any on this packet." "I don't think you do, Mr.Troop." Mrs.Cheyne had been looking at the faces--Disko's ivory-yellow, hairless, iron countenance; Uncle Salters's, with its rim of agricultural hair; Penn's bewildered simplicity; Manuel's quiet smile; Long Jack's grin of delight; and Tom Platt's scar.

Rough, by her standards, they certainly were; but she had a mother's wits in her eyes, and she rose with outstretched hands.
"Oh, tell me, which is who ?" said she, half sobbing.