"Captain Farraday gave it to me. When he saw what the mate had done, he was a little scared, and sent me to take care of you. He gave me a glass of rum to wash your head in. Now lay still, and I will get another. If you take it inside, it will balance you right—keep you on an even keel."
He took the glass and disappeared before I could protest against his proposed treatment; but presently he returned with the tumbler half full of rum.
"Take a little of this, my lad," said he.
"No, I thank you; I don't need it. I feel much better, and that would only go into my head, and make me dizzy."
He urged the point very earnestly, but I persisted in my refusal to touch the vile stuff; the smell of it on my head was enough, and more than enough, for me.
"It will do you good," Jack insisted.
"Excuse me; I do not need it."
"Well, if you really mean so, I won't say another word about it. But it is a pity to have it wasted."
"You can return it to the captain."
"That would be worse than wasting it, Phil," he added, as he poured it down his own throat.