“Jones,” said Danbury Dawes with great dignity and an eye that deceived him to such a degree that he could not for the life of him understand why Jones was attending them in pairs, “Jones, you ought to be in—hic—bed, damn you both of you. Wha' you mean, sir, by coming in—hic—here thish time o' night dis-disturbing—”
“You infernal ingrate,” broke in Mr Riggs fiercely, “don't you dare to touch that bottle, sir! Let it alone!”
“It's time you were in bed,” pronounced Jones, taking Mr Dawes by the arm.
Mr Dawes sagged heavily in his chair and grinned triumphantly. He was a short, very fat old man.
“People who live in—hic—glass houses————” he began amiably, and then suddenly was overtaken by the thought of the moment before. “Take your hand off of me, confoun' you! D' you sup-supposh I can go to bed with my bes' frien' out there—hic—in the mid-middle of Atlan'ic Oc-o-shum, sinking in four miles of wa-wa'er and calling f-far help?”
“Take him to bed, Jones,” said Mr Riggs firmly. “He's drunk and-and utterly useless at a time like this. Take him along.”
“Who the dev—hic—il are you, sir?” demanded Mr Dawes, regarding Mr Riggs as if he had never seen him before.
“You are both drunk,” said Jones succinctly. Mr Riggs began to whimper.
“My bes' frien' is drawnin' by inches, and you come in here and tell me I'm drunk. It's most heartless thing I ever heard of. Isn't it, Danbury, ol' pal? Isn't it, damn you? Speak up!”
“Drawnin' by inches—hic—in four miles of wa-water,” admitted Mr Dawes miserably. “My God, Jo-Jones, do you know how many—hic—inches there are in four miles?”