“Now, Ned, you’re the youngest,” cried the doctor.
“Oh, you have some first, sir,” said the boy.
“Tip it up,” cried the doctor fiercely. “My good lad, you don’t know what agony it is to practise self-denial and etiquette at a time like this.”
The doctor spoke so fiercely that his words, combined with the intense thirst from which he suffered, made the boy raise the cup to his lips, to feel a thrill of delight as the lukewarm water trickled down his parched throat.
The next moment, thanks to his father’s teaching, he literally dragged the cup from his lips and thrust it in the face of Chris, who was looking at him by the lanthorn light, feeling in agony, and as if his eyes were starting out of his head.
“No, no!” he panted.
“Drink!” yelled Ned savagely.
“Yes, drink, boy!” cried the doctor. “Quick!”
The doubling of the emphatic command made Chris obey, and he too sighed bitterly as he drained the last drop from the half-filled mug and passed it back.
“Quick, no more ceremony,” cried the doctor, “or I shall be ready to forget myself, for I’m half mad with thirst. Fill up, Wilton. Now, Bourne, drink.”