"Ah, the blue devil that came in your eyes! Why did I not let them have one whirl at you? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Wake me up," muttered Harrigan. "I'm dreamin'!"
"There's a thick lie in my throat," said Campbell. "I must wash it out and leave a truth there!"
He opened a small cupboard, exposing a formidable array of black and green bottles. One of the black he pulled down, as well as two small glasses, which he filled to the brim.
"To your bonny blue eyes, lad!" he said, and raised a glass. "Here's an end to the mutiny—and a drop to our old friendship!"
Harrigan, still with clouded mind, raised the glass and drank. It was a fine sherry wine.
"How old would you say that wine was?" queried the Scotchman with exaggerated carelessness.
The carelessness did not deceive Harrigan. His mind went blanker still, for he knew little about good wines.
"Well?" asked the engineer.
"H-m!" muttered Harrigan, and racked his brain to remember the ages at which a good vintage becomes a rare old wine. "About thirty-five years."