-- what age is he? queried one hearer who, by the way, seen from the side, bore a distant resemblance to henry campbell, the townclerk, away from the carking cares of office, unwashed, of course, and in a seedy getup and a strong suspicion of nosepaint about the nasal appendage.
-- why, the sailor answered with a slow puzzled utterance. my son danny? he'd be about eighteen now, way i figure it.
the skibbereen father hereupon tore open his grey or unclean anyhow shirt with his two hands and scratched away at his chest on which was to be seen an image tattooed in blue chinese ink, intended to represent an anchor.
-- there was lice in that bunk in bridgwater, he remarked. sure as nuts. i must get a wash tomorrow or next day. it's them black lads i objects to. i hate those buggers. sucks your blood dry, they does.
seeing they were all looking at his chest, he accommodatingly dragged his shirt more open so that, on top of the time honoured symbol of the mariner's hope and rest, they had a full view of the figure 16 and a young man's sideface looking frowningly rather.
-- tattoo, the exhibitor explained. that was done when we were lying becalmed off odessa in the black sea under captain dalton fellow the name of antonio done that. there he is himself, a greek.
-- did it hurt much doing it? one asked the sailor.
that worthy, however, was busily engaged in collecting round the someway in his. squeezing or...
-- see here, he said, ing antonio. there he is, cursing the mate. and there he is now, he added. the same fellow, pulling the skin with his fingers, some special knack evidently, and he laughing at a yarn.
and in point of fact the young man named antonio's livid face did actually look like forced smiling and the curious effect excited the unreserved admiration of everybody, including skin-the-goat who this time stretched over.
-- ay, ay, sighed the sailor, looking down on his manly chest. he's gone too. ate by sharks after. ay, ay.
he let go of the skin so that the profile resumed the normal expression of before.