"Look here, you fellows!" exclaimed Denbigh after the man deputed to attend to their needs had gone. "It's all very well knocking off the fizz, but they'll notice we haven't drunk any."
"Pour it into the grate," suggested Pat O'Hara recklessly.
Denbigh shook his head.
"Won't do," he objected, giving a glance in the direction of the small "bogie" stove. "I suppose there isn't any possibility of prizing open the port-lid?"
"You'd be spotted even if you could. There are plenty of men on deck," said O'Hara, glad of the opportunity of countering Denbigh's objection with another. "Come along, old bird; what do you suggest?"
Stirling, to whom the invitation was addressed, thrust his hand into the breast pocket of his coat.
"What would you do if I weren't here to look after you?" he enquired, at the same time producing three sponges. "I took them from our cabin."
"For dessert?" queried O'Hara, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.
"Yes, if you are a goat," said Stirling with asperity. "Goats are, I believe, rather partial to this sort of tack."
Coolly the Scot poured out a wineglassful of sherry—it was from the same decanter that they had taken some the previous evening—and slowly spilt the liquid on the sponge.