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 Their leader, a large man with a broad, smooth-shaven face, the ruddiest of all, outshouted the others. "Forget it! Let your Aunt Mariar alone for long enough to tell George, can't you? What's it goin' to be, gentlemen?"

This voice was familiar to Ogle; he recognized it. "Dear me!" he murmured. "It's 'Honey-how's-Baby' again!"

Albert Jones caught the phrase. "What? What do you mean: 'Honey-how's-Baby'?"

"There's a seasick mother and her daughter in the cabin next to mine," Ogle explained. "A person comes in there to see them, and says, 'Honey, how's Baby?' It's that man there."

"That one?" Macklyn inquired. "That's the same fellow who tried to break in with Jones and me the first night out. He told us he didn't know a soul on the ship except his wife and daughter, but he's evidently picked up some congenial bandarlogs. Look at 'em! It's our most terrible native type, and they all belong to it."

The four noisy men, busy at the bar and unconscious of the unfavourable regard bent upon them, abated little of their uproar until filled glasses stood before them. Two, with their heads close together,