“So do I,” said Brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring a glass of spirits down his throat.
There must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of the Evening Star said to Gunter, “Get out the boat. I’ll go cruisin’.”
It must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. David Bright only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little transaction between the White Cloud and the Coper, his intention was to pay that vessel a visit—to go carousing, or, as the North Sea smacksmen have it, “cruisin’.”
Gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity.
“Jump in, Spivin, and you come too, Billy.”
“I say, father,” said the boy in a low voice, “are ye goin’ to drink wi’ the Swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?”
“You clap a stopper on your jaw an’ obey orders,” replied the skipper angrily.
Although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek, Billy was by no means a rebellious boy. He knew, from sad experience, that when his father made up his mind to “go in for a drinking-bout,” the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. With an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him, he leaped into the boat and took an oar.
“What cheer, David?” said the Swab, offering his rugged hand when the former jumped on the deck of the White Cloud. “I thought you’d come.”
“You was right, Dick,” returned David, shaking the proffered hand.