"I say, steward,"—quoth Lanyard, this was Lennox's first night of holding office,—the other functionary pro tem. having subsided into his real character of landsman—"light the lamp in the cabin, do you hear? and bring me a glass of grog. Where is Mr Donovan?"
"Below, and asleep in bed, sir."
"Very well. Mr Marline, make sail, and run down to the commodore, and keep close in his wake, if you please."
"Ay, ay, sir."
We descended.
"Fetch the salt beef also, Lennox."
It was done. Were I a king, and fool enough to patronise suppers on shore—at sea, it is altogether "une autre chose"—my sole food at that meal would be a piece of capital virgin mess beef, that had been boiled the day before, but never a knife stuck into it until served up, with a coarse, crisp, brown biscuit, and a glass of cold grog after it—ay, you may turn up your nose at this, my fine fellow, but better men than you have agreed with me.
"That is very well mixed, steward, very cool," said I swigging off horn No. I. "By the way, Lennox, have you got the new philtre, the Barbadoes dripstone, at work?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, I thought so; was that the water you made that glass of grog with?" Sinner that I was, I knew as well as he that it was not.