He threw in, with his mouth full, touches of description that made his companion stare, and his eloquence about the blackened hull of the vessel was wonderful.
"Talk about charkle fires," he cried; "why, if my old mother was here she'd nail the lot and save it, to use up the fruit off some of these here trees and make jam." "Why, you can't make jam out of a burnt ship," said the stowaway.
"Who ever said you could, Davy Jimpny ?" cried Billy.

"But you wants charkle to make it with, don't yer ?" "Yes, if you can't get coke," said the stowaway sadly.
"Well, I aren't seen no gasworks on those here shores nowheres, and so you can't get no coke, can you ?" "Course not." "Well, then, charkle it is.

The whole deck's charkle, and so's the bulwarks, and the chunk end o' the bowsprit ?" "And the masts, Billy ?" said Small.
"Dessay they are, but they're floated away.

The whole ship's a reg'lar cellar." Billy then got on about the length of time they stopped, about the wonderful nature of the crater bay, and the depth of the water.
"Why, when you was rowing acrost it you could feel as it must go right through to the other side, it was so deep.

No water couldn't be so black as that was without being hundreds o' knots deep." "I say, Billy, ain't you getting hundreds o' knots into your yarn ?" said Small.
"Not I, bosun.