"I've got your name, an' here's your number--I got that, too: _high- strung but reasonable_.

It fits you like the paper on the wall.
"High-strung but reasonable, that's what you are, Killeny Boy, high-strung but reasonable," he continued to mumble as Kwaque helped to roll him into his bunk.
Kwaque returned to his polishing.

His lips stammered and halted in the making of noiseless whispers, as, with corrugated brows of puzzlement, he addressed the steward: "Marster, what name stop 'm along that fella dog ?" "Killeny Boy, you kinky-head man-eater, Killeny Boy, Killeny Boy," Dag Daughtry murmured drowsily.

"Kwaque, you black blood-drinker, run n' fetch 'm one fella bottle stop 'm along icey-chestis." "No stop 'm, marster," the black quavered, with eyes alert for something to be thrown at him.

"Six fella bottle he finish altogether." The steward's sole reply was a snore.
The black, with the twisted hand of leprosy and with a barely perceptible infiltration of the same disease thickening the skin of the forehead between the eyes, bent over his polishing, and ever his lips moved, repeating over and over, "Killeny Boy.".