They drank the toast, and the brandy went down to warm Bush’s interior to a really comfortable pitch. He was feeling happy and relaxed, and two toasts later he was feeling better than he had felt since the Renown left Plymouth.
“Come in!” said the captain.
The door opened slowly, and Hornblower stood framed in the opening. There was the old look of strain in his face; Bush could see it even though Hornblower’s figure seemed to waver a little before his eyes—the way objects appeared over the rack of redhot cannonballs at Samaná—and although Hornblower’s countenance seemed to be a little fuzzy round the edges.
“Come in, come in, man,” said the captain. “The toasts are just beginning. Sit in your old place. Brandy for heroes, as Johnson said in his wisdom. Mr. Bush!”
“Vvictorious war. Ooceans of gore. Pprizes galore. Bbbeauty ashore. Hic,” said Bush, inordinately proud of himself that he had remembered that toast and had it ready when called upon.
“Drink fair, Mr. Hornblower,” said the captain, “we have a start of you already. A stern chase is a long chase.”
Hornblower put his glass to his lips again.
“Mr. Buckland!”
“Jollity and—jollity and—jollity and—and—and—mirth,” said Buckland, managing to get the last word out at last. His face was as red as a beetroot and seemed to Bush’s heated imagination to fill the entire cabin like the setting sun; most amusing.
“You’ve come back from the admiral, Mr. Hornblower,” said the captain with sudden recollection.