"No. I liked it, of course."
With that King Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and poured half a bottle of mastik down his throat and shirt. Sir Lancelot gingerly climbed along the ladder with a reviver for Lieutenant Wully, expecting to see that officer in a faint, instead of which he was quite cheery with an empty bottle of mastik protruding from his pocket.
"How the devil did you stick on?"
"Stick on? Oh, eashy!"
"What's this?" asked Le Fumeur, producing the empty mastik bottle from the pocket of our Intelligence Officer.
"Ohsh, thaths noshing. Nerve resthorah. Keep oush cold, verish draftish ere. Donst shay anyshing to boysh. Don't wansh go dingsh."
Sir Lancelot helped him down, and he slept.
IV. Lost.
The wind fell and the sun came out. The ship was put to rights and, scarcely knowing where we were, we headed due north. It seemed about midday. We had a full ration and dosed away in a pleasant sunshine to the steady creaking of some stay or rippling flutter of some loose ribbon in the air-chambers above. We smoked and dreamed of home. A little later our Intelligence Officer, now at his post again, assured us he could tell from the birds beneath us that we were near land.
"What land?" we all asked.