“What kind is carte blanche, Tommie?” asked Andie Howe.
“They’ll tell you behind the bar,” said Clancy.
“Billie,” ordered Andie, “just a little touch of carte blanche, will you, while Clancy’s talking. He’s the slowest man to begin that ever I see. Speeches––speeches––speeches, when your throat’s full of gurry––dry, salty gurry. A little touch of that carte blanche that Mr. Duncan ordered for the crew of the Johnnie Duncan, Billie, will you?”
“Carte blanche––yes,” went on Clancy, “and I callate the old fizzy stuff’s the thing to do justice to this fe-lic-i-tous oc-ca-sion. Do I hear the voice of my shipmates? Aye, aye, I hear them––and in accents unmistakable. Well, here’s a shoot––six quarts level––and a few pieces of ice floating around on top. My soul, but don’t it look fine and rich? Have a look, everybody.”
“Let’s have a drink instead,” hollered Parsons.
Clancy paid no attention to that. “Who was the lad in that Greek bunch in the old days that they sank up to his neck in the lake––cold sparkling water––and peaches and oranges and grapes floating on a little raft close by––but him fixed so he couldn’t bend his head down to get a drink nor 268 lift his head to take a bite of fruit––and hot weather all the time, mind you. Lord, the thirst he raised after a while! What was his––oh, yes, Tantalus––that’s the lad, Tantalus––the cold sparkling water. Man, the thirst he–––”
“The thirst of Tantalus ain’t a patch on the thirst I got. And this is something better than cold sparkling water. That’s you all over, Tommie––joking at serious times,” wailed Parsons.
“Is it as bad as that with you, Eddie? Well, let’s forget Tantalus and drink instead to the able-est, handsom-est, fast-est vessel that ever weathered Eastern Point––to the Johnnie Duncan––and her skipper.”
“And Mr. Duncan, Tommie––he’s all right, too.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Duncan. And while we’re at it, here’s to the whole blessed gang of us––skipper, owner and crew––we’re all corkers.”