Off he went.
“For the land’s sake, Satan! what made you swallow that stuff for?” said Jude.
Satan took his seat on the skylight edge, then he gulped, then he hiccupped.
“Get your hind legs under you and cart the bottle and the glasses down below,” said Satan. “Strewth!—gimme the water jar till I flood my hold.”
He drank till Ratcliffe thought he would never stop, then he went to the port rail and canceled matters.
“It’s Demerara Black John,” said he apologetically to Ratcliffe as he turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Some likes it, but I’ve no holdin’ with drink.”
Ratcliffe was about to ask why he had swallowed it, but he checked himself. Jude, who had just appeared again, put the question.
“What in the nation made you drink that snake-juice?” asked Jude.
Satan took a glance at the sun, at the reef, and at the Juan.
“Now then,” said he, “finish up clarin’ away that raffle and get the dinner ready; I’ve no time to be talkin’.”