The Log of the Sardis

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The seaman striking four bells in the first watch — ten o'clock at night — was red-nosed and shivering with the cold of that north-easterly gale in spite of his thick watch-coat. He thrust his red, split hands into its pockets: "Yon's the lights o' Methil, sir. No doubt it'll be a few months before I'm having a wet ashore there again."

Apprentice Jim Robbins, to whom he spoke, did not know what to reply, and merely said, "Ay, ay" — trying to force his eighteen-year-old voice down to its lowest pitch of gruffness.

"Ay, sir, and is it not a daft time to be leaving Leith — eight o'clock at night? Couldn't the Old Man get rid of all those toffs from the Company an' catch the forenoon tide? Or wait till tomorrow? I mean, I know it's this packet's first trip, and all that..."

Just a minute, Jim thought, that's cheek. Have to stop him. "Very good, Sinclair; carry on for'ard."

"Och, I'm goin', sir, don't fash yersel'."

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