"I wonder if it's possible to obtain a decent British drink in this clam-ridden hole," Hughie continued.
"The nearest thing to a product of the British Empire that you'll get here," said the man, "is Canadian whisky; and personally I would rather drink nitric acid. We had better stick to lager. Come along: I know the ropes."
Presently they found themselves in a German beer saloon, where a stertorous Teuton supplied their needs.
"By the way," said the man, "I have the advantage of you. My name is Allerton. Sorry I forgot!"
"Thanks," said Hughie, rather lamely. "Are you—living out here just now?"
"No," said Allerton simply. "I'm a deck-hand on a tramp-steamer." He spoke easily and freely, as one gentleman to another. He had realised at a glance that he was not about to be made the victim of offensive curiosity or misplaced charity. "She's lying at Hoboken, due out on Tuesday, for Bordeaux."
"French boat?"
"No. American owned, under the British flag, by a fairly competent rascal, too. This trip we are carrying a cargo of Californian wine of sorts. We took it last week from a sailing barque that had brought it round the Horn. She wanted to start back at once, so turned it over to us cheap."
"And you're going to Bordeaux? What does your astute owner want to take coals to Newcastle for?"
"Because everything that comes out of Newcastle is labelled coal whether it is coal or not. In other words, this poison will be carried by us to Bordeaux, bottled and sealed, and shipped to England as fine vintage Burgundy. John Bull will drink it and feel none the worse. I'm told it's a paying trade."