We had drained our glasses dry. The Skipper looked directly at the Bo's'n's knees.
"What do you wear your trousers at half mast for, Bo's'n?" asked the Skipper.
The Bo's'n looked down and tugged at his shrunken cotton legs.
"For Captain Dacres, sir," replied he, with ready wit.
"We're through mourning for him," said the Captain. "Run 'em up or haul 'em down."
"They've shrunk to hell and gone, sir," said the Bo's'n, with superfluous explanation.
"And where's your toast, Mr. Jones?" asked the Skipper in his most enticing voice. His glass was empty.
"It's ready, sir, but my glass is dry."
We all took a finger more, and I, looking over the rim of my pewter cup at Cynthia, gave them "Sweethearts and Wives."
Cynthia expressed it as her conviction that we had all had quite enough, and replaced the bottle upon a ledge in the rock and then resumed her occupation of looking through the glass.