"There is one thing as we wants badly, sir," said Bolter, twirling his tarpaulin hat, and scratching his head; "and that is some brandy, or rum, we ain't particklar which; and a few bottles would go a long way to heal old sores."
"Some brandy?—granted."
"We have a gallon jar in the steward's locker," said Mr. Foster, the second mate.
"Then hoist it out."
Dr. Heriot anticipated Foster by opening the locker, when he soon found the jar, which he proceeded at once to uncork.
"Why, doctor, you don't mean to make it pay toll, do you?" asked Tom Bartelot.
Heriot placed a finger on his lip, as if to impose silence on the speaker, and, pouring out about a pint of the brandy, he substituted for it the contents of a large phial, a clear and pellucid fluid, after which he passed up the jar into the hands of Mr. Bolter, who received it with a very solicitous and affectionate expression of eye.
"What, in Heaven's name, have you done, doctor—not poisoned the stuff—eh?" asked Phillips, in a whisper of alarm; "what was that you poured in?"
"Morphia—strong morphia, and another powerful narcotic—nearly all I had, too," replied the doctor, in a similar whisper. "It will serve to throw some of them, at least, into a sound sleep, and thus enable us to overpower the rest, if need be. This will render us independent of their terms, their promises, and their repentance."
"Now, will Mr. Basset come on deck and meet Pedro Barradas?" asked the Canadian, in his nasal twang.