Taken by an anxious thought I whispered in my uncle’s ear, having him bend his monstrous head close for secrecy.
“Eh?” says he.
I repeated the question.
“Steerage, lad,” he answered. “Tut!” he growled, “none o’ that, now! ’Twill be steerage.”
It grieved me to know it.
“An’ now, Dannie, lad,” quoth my uncle, aloud, with a thirsty rubbing of the hands and a grin to match, “fetch the bottle. The bottle, b’y! ’Tis time for growed men t’ pledge the v’y’ge. A bit nippy, parson man? The bottle, Dannie!”
“Bottle?” cries my tutor. “Why, really, you know, Skipper Nicholas, I––”
“Is you much give t’ the use o’ fo’c’s’les, parson?” my uncle interrupted.
My tutor was not.
“Then,” says my uncle, grimly, “you’ll be wantin’ a drap.”