"A world without whisky looks infernally dismal to a fellow that isn't half done living."
"It looks first-rate to a fellow that hasn't got any backdown in him."
"Curse you! I wish I'd made you back down when you first talked temperance to me."
"Go ahead! Then curse your wife—don't be afraid; you've been doing it ever since you married her."
Crayme flew at Macdonald's throat; the younger man grappled the captain and threw him into his bunk. The captain struggled and glared like a tiger; Fred gasped between the special efforts dictated by self-preservation:
"Sam, I—promised to—to see you—through—and I'm—going to—do it, if—if I have to—break your neck."
The captain made one tremendous effort; Fred braced one foot against the table, put a knee on the captain's breast, held both the captain's wrists tightly, looked full into the captain's eyes, and breathed a small prayer—for his own safety. For a moment or two, perhaps longer, the captain strained violently, and then relaxed all effort, and cried:
"Fred, you've whipped me!"
"Nonsense! whip yourself," exclaimed Fred, "if you're going to stop drinking."
The captain turned his face to the wall and said nothing; but he seemed to be so persistently swallowing something that Fred suspected a secreted bottle, and moved an investigation so suddenly that the captain had not time in which to wipe his eyes.