"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench.
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