at the size of Dave's waste-heap. `Tryin' for the second bottom?'

Pinter dropped his tools with a clatter at the foot of the waste-heap

and scratched under his ear like an old cockatoo, which bird he resembled.

Then he went to the windlass, and resting his hands on his knees,

he peered down, while Dave stood by helpless and hopeless.

Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl, and looked carelessly

`Tryin' for a secon' bottom,' he reflected absently. `Eh, Dave?'

Dave only stood and looked black.