“Come on. Come, Jem, get up.”
“I want a glass,” growled another voice.
“Never mind. Wait till we get on the London road,” cried the man who had been addressed as Joe.
“I want a glass,” growled the man again; and as Hilary came close up he saw that one of the men was seated in the path just in front of a roadside cottage, and that his two companions were kicking and shaking him to make him rise.
“I say, your honour,” said one of the men, crossing to Hilary, “you’re an officer, ar’n’t you?”
“Yes, my man.”
“Just come and order him to get up, quarterdeck fashion, sir, and I’d be obleeged to you. He won’t mind us; but if you, an officer, comes and orders him up, he’ll mind what you say. We want to get to the next town to-night.”
Hilary hesitated for a moment, feeling loath to trouble himself about the stupid, drunken sailor, but his good nature prevailed and he crossed the road.
“Here, my lad,” he said sharply, “get up directly.”
“Going to turn in!” said the fellow sleepily.