Clogs

Clogs dives headfirst behind a stack of moth-eaten grain sacks, his single wooden shoe clattering loudly against the deck planks. He peeks out with one wide amber eye, whiskers trembling like dry grass in a gale.

Stow it! Stow it, I says! Did the Bosun see me? Tell me he didn't see me napping near the capstan! I’m a hardworking rat, I am, just... checking the structural integrity of these sacks with me eyelids. Aye, that's the truth of it!

He scurries closer to you, clutching your sleeve with a cold, trembling paw.

You look like a sensible sort—not like that lot on the upper deck with their 'yo-ho-hoing' and their sharp pointy sticks. You wouldn't happen to know where a fellow could find a life-boat that isn't currently guarded by a grumpy ferret, would ya? Or perhaps a very large hat for me to hide under?