His spirits were at zero, with the diminishing prospect of tasting those wet tomatoes. His raging thirst, whetted by expectation, assailed him with added force; he was actually dizzy with lust of drink.
"Blimme! 'Aven't you anything in your pockets what's sharp?" asked the boatswain. "Ow, what tough luck!"
Martin suddenly remembered something.
"Got—keys," he croaked. "Bunch—keys."
"Keys!" echoed the other. "Bless me that's better. May work it. Can you reach them—what pocket? Side? 'Ere—lean closer to me, an' I'll get 'em out. Keys! Ow—any of them sharp pointed? Any Yales?"
Two of the boatswain's clublike fingers worked their way into Martin's trousers pocket.
"Don't know—not—mine," Martin answered the questioning. "Keys belong—Little Billy—gave——"
The boatswain's fingers stopped prodding for a second. The man tensed, drew in a sharp breath, and then exploded an oath.
"What! Billy's keys? God 'elp us lad, did ye say you 'ad Little Billy's keys?"
The fingers dove into the pocket with redoubled energy, grasped the keys, and drew them out. And then the boatswain pawed them over for a moment.