“Oh! I forgot! Come with me.”
His wife caught his hand and led him through the small connecting door to her tiny stateroom. Still holding his hand, she fished in the depths of a hat-locker and brought forth a pint bottle of champagne.
“The dinner is complete!” he cried.
“Wait.”
She fished again, and was rewarded with a silver-mounted whisky flask. She held it to the light of a port-hole, and the liquor showed a quarter of the distance from the bottom.
“I've been saving it for weeks,” she explained. “And there's enough for you and Captain Dettmar.”
“Two mighty small drinks,” Duncan complained.
“There would have been more, but I gave a drink to Lorenzo when he was sick.”
Duncan growled, “Might have given him rum,” facetiously.
“The nasty stuff! For a sick man? Don't be greedy, Boyd. And I'm glad there isn't any more, for Captain Dettmar's sake. Drinking always makes him irritable. And now for the men's dinner. Soda crackers, sweet cakes, candy—”