"Did you 'ave a nice little nap?" he interrupted. "Come up bright and smilin', eigh? Now I guess"—the emphasis made it clear that the captain believed himself to be employing an Americanism; and so successful was he in his own esteem that he could not resist the temptation to improve upon the imitation—"Na-ow I guess yeou're abaout right ready, ben't ye, to hev a drink, sonny?"
"No, thank you," said Kirkwood, smiling tolerantly. "I've got any amount of appetite..."
"'Ave you, now?" Stryker dropped his mimicry and glanced at the clock. "Breakfast," he announced, "will be served in the myne dinin' saloon at eyght a. m. Passingers is requested not to be lyte at tyble."
Depositing the bottle on the said table, the captain searched until he found another glass for Kirkwood, and sat down.
"Do you good," he insinuated, pushing the bottle gently over.
"No, thank you," reiterated Kirkwood shortly, a little annoyed.
Stryker seized his own glass, poured out a strong man's dose of the fiery concoction, gulped it down, and sighed. Then, with a glance at the American's woebegone countenance (Kirkwood was contemplating a four-hour wait for breakfast, and, consequently, looking as if he had lost his last friend), the captain bent over, placing both hands palm down before him and wagging his head earnestly.
"Please," he implored,—"Please don't let me hinterrupt;" and filled his pipe, pretending a pensive detachment from his company.
The fumes of burning shag sharpened the tooth of desire. Kirkwood stood it as long as he could, then surrendered with an: "If you've got any more of that tobacco, Captain, I'd be glad of a pipe."
An intensely contemplative expression crept into the captain's small blue eyes.