They were merely filthy and vile.

They were vile of appearance, of speech, and action.
"Come! Come! Get your dunnage into the fo'c's'le!" Mr.Pike uttered these words sharply from the bridge above.

A light and graceful bridge of steel rods and planking ran the full length of the _Elsinore_, starting from the poop, crossing the amidship house and the forecastle, and connecting with the forecastle-head at the very bow of the ship.
At the mate's command the men reeled about and glowered up at him, one or two starting clumsily to obey.

The others ceased their drunken yammerings and regarded the mate sullenly.

One of them, with a face mashed by some mad god in the making, and who was afterwards to be known by me as Larry, burst into a guffaw, and spat insolently on the deck.
Then, with utmost deliberation, he turned to his fellows and demanded loudly and huskily: "Who in hell's the old stiff, anyways ?" I saw Mr.Pike's huge form tense convulsively and involuntarily, and I noted the way his huge hands strained in their clutch on the bridge-railing.