"That's what's the matter. I'm a poor boy! I was a fool to drink more'n one nip of your camphene," hickuped Lynch. "Here, old fellow, here's a half of one of those francs. Don't say nothing more about it. I'm a poor boy, but I shall get over it."
The young tippler handed the half-franc piece to the waiter, who bowed, scraped, flourished his napkin, and fled.
CHAPTER XIII.
THREE CHEERS FOR THE KING OF BELGIUM.
"I say, Grossbeck, you and I are two bigger fools than Napoleon was when he went to Russia," said Lynch, as they reached the street again.
"That's so. 'There was a sound of revelry by night, and Belgium's capital'—got considerably mixed," replied Grossbeck, whose head was not quite so full as his companion's.
"What shall we do, my boy?" stammered Lynch. "That wine was nothing short of camphene. We shall be seen by the captain, and we shall both be sent to keep company with poor McDougal. We've lost our mess on the Josephine."
"Stiffen up, Lynch. Don't give way to it. What sort of a sailor are you, that can't bear two thimblefuls of wine?"
"That wine was camphene, I tell you. It feels just like a whole bunch of friction matches touched off at once in my stomach—that's so. I'm a poor boy and no mistake, Grossbeck."