The great teapot was still in my hand. I limped to the galley and handed it to him. But he was consuming with indignation, real or feigned.
? ? ? ? 'Gawd blime me if you ayn't a slob. Wot're you good for, anyw'y, I'd like to know. Eh? Wot're you good for, anyw'y? Cawn't even carry a bit of tea aft without losin' it. Now I'll 'ave to boil some more.
? ? ? ? 'An' wot're you snifflin' about?' he burst out at me with renewed rage. ''Cos you've 'urt yer pore little leg, pore little mama's darlin'!'
? ? ? ? I was not sniffling, though my face might well have been drawn and twitching from the pain. But I called up all my resolution, set my teeth, and hobbled back and forth from galley to cabin, and cabin to galley, without further mishap. Two things I had acquired by my accident: an injured kneecap that went undressed and from which I suffered for weary months, and the name of 'Hump,' which Wolf Larsen had called me from the poop. Thereafter, fore and aft, I was known by no other name, until the term became a part of my thought processes and I identified it with myself, thought of myself as Hump, as though Hump were I and had always been I.
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