"Oh, a birthday present! You must like your officers," prompted Martin.
"Like! Like! Why, strike me, lad, we love the little mate! Ain't anybody on the 'Appy Ship as don't love the mate, from the Old Man down."
"Happy Ship?" said Martin, struck by the words' connotation. "Is that the name of your vessel?"
"What we call 'er," the sailor answered. "'Er name is Cohasset—brig Cohasset. I'm bosun, and Little Billy, 'e's steward, and a prime steward 'e is."
The bosun of the brig Cohasset paused and spat stringily.
Martin feared the font of his speech was dried up, and he hurriedly bade Johnny replenish the glasses. The bosun acknowledged the office with a lordly gesture. Then his grief overwhelmed him, and he bowed his head over his glass and sniffed audibly. He cultivated retrospection.
"I 'ad 'im all right at the Ferry Building," he told Martin tearfully. "I 'ad Little Billy right enough, there."
He spoke as if he had Little Billy safely tucked under an arm at the Ferry Building. He inspected Martin suspiciously, as if Martin might have the missing steward concealed somewhere about his person.
"We was walking up Market Street," he continued, "sober as judges, both. And Billy says a bokay was what we wanted for the little mate's birthday. Fine, says I. A bokay of lilies, says 'e, because lilies means purity. No, says I, they got to be roses, roses meanin' beauty. And so we stops into a place or two to talk it over. Swiggle me stiff, could anything 'ave begun more innercent? Just going to buy a bokay, that's what! And now——"
The bosun sighed. He was crushed by the fell consequences of a virtuous intent.