“It’s hardly judicious,” said Silas to his mate, “but I suppose they must have it.”
Ah! Silas Grig, it was not judicious to serve them with the first allowance. When hard work is over and finished, and men are worn out and tired, then is the time, if ever, to splice the main-brace; but when work has to be done that needs clear heads, and when danger is all around a ship, the farther away the rum is the better.
They had it, though, and presently they were singing as they pumped—singing, but not working half so hard as before. Then even the singing itself ceased; they were getting tired and drowsy, and yet another allowance of rum was asked and granted.
The water rose higher in the hold.
When the men heard this report they would work no more. With one accord they desisted from their labours, and a deputation of the boldest found their way aft.
“It is no use, Captain Silas Grig,” they said, addressing their skipper; “the ship is going down, and we mean to die jolly. Bring up the rum.”
“This is mutiny,” cried the captain, pulling out a revolver. “I’ll shoot the first man dead that dares go down that cabin staircase.”
“Captain,” said one of the men, stepping forward, “will you let me speak to you? I’ve nothing but friendly feelings towards you.”
“Well,” replied the skipper, “what have you to say?”
“This,” said the man; “let us have no murder. Put up your shooting-irons. It is all in vain. The men will have rum. Hark! d’ye hear that?”