When I once remonstrated with an old toper of a top-man about this daily dram-drinking; when I told him it was ruining him, and advised him to stop his grog and receive the money for it, in addition to his wages as provided by law, he turned about on me, with an irresistibly waggish look, and said, “Give up my grog? And why? Because it is ruining me? No, no; I am a good Christian, White-Jacket, and love my enemy too much to drop his acquaintance.”
It may be readily imagined, therefore, what consternation and dismay pervaded the gun-deck at the first announcement of the tidings that the grog was expended.
“The grog gone!” roared an old Sheet-anchor-man.
“Oh! Lord! what a pain in my stomach!” cried a Main-top-man.
“It’s worse than the cholera!” cried a man of the After-guard.
“I’d sooner the water-casks would give out!” said a Captain of the Hold.
“Are we ganders and geese, that we can live without grog?” asked a Corporal of Marines.
“Ay, we must now drink with the ducks!” cried a Quarter-master.
“Not a tot left?” groaned a Waister.
“Not a toothful!” sighed a Holder, from the bottom of his boots.