“One bottle, you scamp! there’s another in the cupboard.”
“Then you must see double already, father.”
Old Tom, who was startled at this news, and who imagined that Tom must have gained possession of the other bottle, jumped up and made for the cupboard, to ascertain whether what Tom asserted was correct. This was what Tom wished; he immediately changed pannikins of grog with his father, and remained quiet.
“There is another bottle, Tom,” said his father, coming out and taking his seat again. “I knew there was. You young rascal, you don’t know how you frightened me!” And old Tom put the pannikin to his lips. “Drowned the miller, by heavens!” said he, “What could I have been about?” ejaculated he, adding more spirit to his mixture.
“I suppose, upon the strength of another bottle in the locker, you are doubling the strength of your grog. Come, father,” and Tom held out his pannikin, “do put a little drop in mine—it’s seven-water grog, and I’m not on the black-list.”
“No, no, Tom; your next shall be stronger. Well, master, how do you like your liquor?”
“Verily,” replied the Dominie, “it is a pleasant and seducing liquor. Lo and behold! I am at the bottom of my utensil.”
“Stop till I fill it up again, old gentleman. I see you are one of the right sort. You know what the song says—
“A plague on those musty old lubbers,
Who tell us to fast and to think,
And patient fall in with life’s rubbers,
With nothing but water to drink!
“Water, indeed! The only use of water I know is to mix your grog with, and float vessels up and down the world. Why was the sea made salt, but to prevent our drinking too much water. Water, indeed!