Davie Summers sais he seed him at it, an' it's a dooty the guvermint owes to the publik to have the matter investigated.

It's gin'rally expected, howsever, that the guvermint won't trubble its hed with the matter.

There's bin an onusual swarmin' o' rats in the ship of late, an' Davie Summers has had a riglar hunt after them.

The lad has becum more than ornar expert with his bow an' arrow, for he niver misses now--exceptin', always, when he dusn't hit--an' for the most part takes them on the pint on the snowt with his blunt-heded arow, which he drives in--the snowt, not the arow.
There's a gin'ral wish among the crew to no whether the north pole _is_ a pole or a dot.

Mizzle sais it's a dot, and O'Riley swears (no, he don't do that, for we've gin up swearin' in the fog-sail), but he sais that it's a real post, 'bout as thick again as the main-mast, an' nine or ten times as hy.