“Ah! The Old Wolf!” said he. “Got here at last, eh? And whatcher gonnerdo wi' me, eh?” He hiccoughed resoundingly, and sagged back loosely in his chair.
Old Wolverstone stared at him in sombre silence. He had looked with untroubled eye upon many a hell of devilment in his time, but the sight of Captain Blood in this condition filled him with sudden grief. To express it he loosed an oath. It was his only expression for emotion of all kinds. Then he rolled forward, and dropped into a chair at the table, facing the Captain.
“My God, Peter, what's this?”
“Rum,” said Peter. “Rum, from Jamaica.” He pushed bottle and glass towards Wolverstone.
Wolverstone disregarded them.
“I'm asking you what ails you?” he bawled.
“Rum,” said Captain Blood again, and smiled. “Jus' rum. I answer all your queshons. Why donjerr answer mine? Whatcher gonerdo wi' me?”
“I've done it,” said Wolverstone. “Thank God, ye had the sense to hold your tongue till I came. Are ye sober enough to understand me?”
“Drunk or sober, allus 'derstand you.”
“Then listen.” And out came the tale that Wolverstone had told. The Captain steadied himself to grasp it.