“As much as you do yourself.”
“Thank you—men of superior education—sympathy—and all that—you understand me fully, major. Now this night-breeze coming through that half-open jalousie—miasmata—and all that. Dr Armstrong, Dr Thompson—medical pill—‘pillars of the state’—you will pardon the classical allusion—”
“I won’t,” growled out the doctor.
“Ah—so like you—so modest—but don’t you think the draught is a little dangerous?”
“Do you mean the doctor’s, or this?” said the inattentive and thirsty major, fetching a deep breath, as he put down the huge glass tumbler of sangaree.
“Oh dear, no!—I mean the night draught through the window.”
“The best way to dispose of it,” said the purser, nodding at the melting Galen.
“No,” replied Major Flushfire, courteously, “there’s no danger in it at all—I like it.”
“Bless me, major,” said the marine, “why it comes all in gusts.”
“Like it all the better,” rejoined the major, with his head again half buried in the sangaree glass.