“Your language is revolting,” cried Glyddyr passionately.
“Well, ain’t it enough to make any man revolt? Why, you ought to have hold there; you ought to have taken possession and looked after everything. It’s as good as your own. Oh, where would you be if I didn’t look after you. Now, then: you’d better get over there at once.”
“No,” said Glyddyr, “not yet;” and, in spite of himself, he shuddered, and then glanced at his visitor to see if it had been noticed.
“Look at him! Why, the old man isn’t there now. There, I won’t bully you, dear boy. I see how it is. Ring the bell; have in the steward, and let me mix you a pick-me-up. You’re down, regularly down. I’ll soon wind you up, and set you going again. I’m like a father to you.”
Glyddyr obeyed in a weak, helpless way, ringing for the steward, and then ordering in the spirits.
“Bring in the liqueurs too, my lad—Curaçoa, Chartreuse, anything.—You want me now, old fellow, but you must take care. You’re as white as wax, and your hand’s all of a tremble. It won’t do. You don’t drink fair. Now, as soon as your man brings in the tackle, I’ll give you a dose, and then you’ve got to go over yonder.”
“No,” said Glyddyr hoarsely, “no: not to-day.”
“Yes, to-day. You don’t want two chaps cutting the ground from under your feet.—Hah, that’s your sort, steward. Better than being aboard ship, and having to put your hand in your pocket every time you want a drink. Needn’t wait.”
The man left the little saloon, and Gellow deftly concocted a draught with seltzer and liqueurs, which Glyddyr took with trembling hand, and tossed off.
“Talk about making a new man!” cried Gellow. “You feel better already, don’t you?”