“What’s the matter, sir?”
“Old Jamaica!” vociferated the captain. “It was Old Jamaica, but now smell o’ that, will you?”
Filhiol sniffed, tentatively. In a second he knew some one had been tampering with the liquor, substituting low-grade spirits for Brigg’s choicest treasure; but he merely shrugged his shoulders, with:
“It seems like very good rum, sir. Come, let’s mix our grog and get the cards.”
“Good rum!” gibed Briggs. “Some thieving son of Satan has been at my Jamaica, and has been fillin’ the square-face up with hog-slop, or I never sailed blue water! Look at the stuff now, will you?”
He spilled out half a glass of the liquor, tasted it, spat it upon the floor. Then he dashed the glass violently to the boards, crashing it to flying shards and spattering the rum all about. In a bull-like roar he shouted:
“Boy! You, there, boy!”
A moment, and one of the doors leading off the main cabin opened, on the port side. A pale, slim boy appeared and advanced into the cabin, blinking up with fear at the black-bearded vision of wrath.
“Yes, sir? What is it, sir?” asked he, in a scared voice.