"Sick?" asked Martin.
A groan. Then a series of well-formed sighs. Then the giant turned and loomed above Martin, snuffling.
"Ow, swiggle me!" rumbled a deep and husky voice. "Ow, I'm in a proper fix, I am. Ow, where 'as 'e got 'imself to! Ow, why didn't I die afore I was born, says I!"
"Why, what is the matter? Come, come!" exclaimed Martin, aghast at the stricken voice.
The big man teetered to and fro upon his feet. He was perhaps wrestled by sorrow. But Martin smelled whisky.
"Come, brace up!" he admonished.
"Ow, strike me, I'm in for it, I am!" came the plaintive growl. "I've gone an' lost 'im, I 'ave; I've gone an' lost Little Billy. Can't find 'im, can't find 'im in the bloomin' town. I've looked in a thousand bleedin' pubs, I 'ave, and I can't find Little Billy. Walked a blister on my foot, I 'ave. Ow, swiggle me, what a snorkin' day I've 'ad!"
The words tumbled forth heavy laden with alcohol. Martin could understand there had been a wet search. The other groaned and strangled.
"Ow, swiggle me stiff!" he ejaculated despairingly. "What am I goin' to say to the blessed, bleedin' little mate!"
"Oh, come now, don't be down-hearted," cheered Martin. The man and his words fell in with Martin's mood.