Sue shrugged her shoulders.
“Well,” she said, “we’ve rum enough for any foreigner, and, if we ain’t as fine as the Victory, our liquor’s as good.”
“Eh, what’s that?” Old Gilbot pricked up his ears, the pewter-pot halfway to his lips. “Not as fine as the Victory, lass? Who says we ain’t as fine as the Victory, any day? Eh? Anywaysh,” he added, his face hidden in the nearly empty tankard, “anywaysh, we’ve prettier wenches.”
“You’re right, host—here, rum all round and drink to the wenches.” Big French, his hand in his breeches pocket, spoke loudly and the coins jingled as he planked them down on the table, and the two girls hastened to draw the rum.
“The wenches!” shouted French, one big foot on the form and his tankard held high above his head.
“The wenches!” roared the company.
“The wenches!” piped Gilbot happily from his corner.
This pleasant ceremony took some minutes, and Sue and Anny stood together smiling at each other, neither giving a thought to the little dark-skinned, white-handed Spaniard who was sailing under full canvas toward their home.
“I’ll go down to the hard to meet Black’erchief,” said French at last, wiping his beard with a green handkerchief.
“I’ll with you.” “And I.” “And I.” Most of the company rose and followed the young Goliath to the door.