- end_line
- 7851
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 7826
- text
- “Why not call it a white-washed man-of-war schooner? Look at the
port-holes, to let in the air of cold nights.”
“A reg’lar herring-net,” chimed in Grummet.
“Gives me the _fever nagur_ to look at it,” echoed a mizzen-top-man.
“Silence!” cried the auctioneer. “Start it now—start it, boys; anything
you please, my fine fellows! it _must_ be sold. Come, what ought I to
have on it, now?”
“Why, Purser’s Steward,” cried a waister, “you ought to have new
sleeves, a new lining, and a new body on it, afore you try to shove it
off on a greenhorn.”
“What are you, ‘busin’ that ’ere garment for?” cried an old
sheet-anchor-man. “Don’t you see it’s a ‘uniform mustering
jacket’—three buttons on one side, and none on t’other?”
“Silence!” again cried the auctioneer. “How much, my sea-fencibles, for
this superior old jacket?”
“Well,” said Grummet, “I’ll take it for cleaning-rags at one cent.”
“Oh, come, give us a bid! say something, Colombians.”
- title
- Chunk 2