“Bill Jones gave it to me, and I’m sure as how I didn’t.”
“Then who did, sir, I ask you.”
“I think it be Bill Jones, sir, ’cause he’s fond of butter, I know, and there be very little left in the jar.”
“Very well, we’ll see to that to-morrow morning. Mr Tomkins, you’ll oblige me by putting the butter-jar down in the report, in case it should slip my memory. Bill Jones, indeed, looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Never mind. Well, it was, as I said before—it was in the year ninety-three or ninety-four, when I was in the Channel fleet; we were then off Torbay, and had just taken two reefs in the top-sails. Stop—before I go on with my story, I’ll take my last glass; I think it’s the last—let me count. Yes, by heavens! I make out sixteen, all told. Never mind, it shall be a stiff one. Boy, bring the kettle, and mind you don’t pour the hot water into my shoes, as you did the other night. There, that will do. Now, Tomkins, fill up yours; and you, Mr Smith. Let us all start fair, and then you shall have my story—and a very curious one it is, I can tell you, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, if I hadn’t seen it. Hilloa! What’s this? Confound it! What’s the matter with the toddy? Heh, Mr Tomkins?”
Mr Tomkins tasted; but, like the lieutenant, he had made it very stiff; and, as he had also taken largely before, he was, like him, not quite so clear in his discrimination. “It has a queer twang, sir: Smith, what is it?”
Smith took up his glass, tasted the contents.
“Salt-water,” drawled the midshipman.
“Salt-water! So it is by heavens!” cried Mr Appleboy.
“Salt as Lot’s wife! By all that’s infamous!” cried the master’s mate.
“Salt-water, sir!” cried Jem in a fright, expecting a salt eel for supper.