“It looks first-rate to a fellow that hasn’t got any back-down 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.