‘Nixon—Tommy Nixon—you don’t drink—Nixon—you thief—you are sober,’ yelled Jerry. ‘There’s mischief in it—comrades! mischief! But here, we’ll alter all that—bring hither that tub.’
The tub of which he spoke was an empty bucket, which rolled upon the floor. It was immediately plucked up, and trundled along the table to where he stood staggering at the head of it.
‘Now fetch me them brandy-bottles,’ cries the mate.
‘Go easy, go easy,’ says Nixon.
‘Easy,’ retorted Jerry, in his passion; ‘thou art but a cur, Tommy Nixon, to shirk the bottle in that fashion; but thy throat shall scald for it—there.’
And at the last word the drunken villain caught up a flask of brandy by the neck, and smashed it into the bucket. ‘There, and there, and there,’ he shouted, dashing in bottle after bottle. ‘And now, Nixon, since you wont drink brandy raw, you shall drink it burning, my son.’
In a moment, and before any one could interfere, the savage caught up a candle, burning on the table before him, and flung it all alight into the raw spirits.
Rumbold and I uttered a cry of horror as the brandy flashed up in a blue flickering blaze to the very ceiling of the cabin, but the besotted company only shouted and cheered.
‘Come, Tommy Nixon,’ roared the mate, ‘dip thy beak into that snapdragon—come.’
And so saying, he grasped the man with both his brawny fists.