Beyond a protesting grunt Wilkins showed no sign of recognition.
"Drunk as a lord," commented the Chief Steward. "Come on, man!" he added sternly. "Pull yourself together. You've been after the Old Man's whisky-bottle."
A friendship existed between the two men. The Chief Steward had obtained Wilkins's post for him. In consequence the former made allowances, which he would not have done in the case of another of his subordinates.
Holding Wilkins under the arms the Chief Steward dragged him unceremoniously along the deserted alley-way, and bundled him into his own cabin. There he would be safe from detection.
Locking the door, the Chief Steward returned to the pantry, washed out the tell-tale tumbler, and then summoned an assistant steward.
"Wilkins is ill," he announced briefly. "Take on Captain's steward's duties until he's fit again."
At five minutes to seven Assistant Steward Scott, bearing a can of hot water and a cup of tea, tapped at the Old Man's cabin door.
Captain Bullock, as fresh as a proverbial daisy, eyed the deputy coldly. Any alteration of routine jarred him.
"Where's Wilkins?" he demanded.
"On the sick list, sir."