Reluctantly, Jerry moved to obey. Mr. Briggs watched him, scowling. Then he banged the bottle on the table and said, “Have a drink, Blackie. That’ll put some zip into those lazy legs of yours.”
“My name’s Jerry,” Jerry replied hotly. “And I don’t drink.”
“Don’t drink, hey? Regular sissy, aren’t you? Well, I’m mate aboard this scow, and when I tell a man to drink, he drinks!”
Mr. Briggs lurched to his feet. Still swaying, he seized the bottle by its neck and moved toward Jerry.
Sandy Steele moved quickly to head him off. He well knew Jerry’s split-second temper and he wanted to stop the mate before he did something he would regret.
“Please, sir,” he pleaded. “Don’t! He’s getting your dinner. Now, if you’ll just sit down—”
The mate shouldered Sandy roughly aside.
“Out of my way,” he mumbled. “Here, you,” he said to Jerry, swinging the bottle up in an arc, “take a drink like I ordered you to.”
As Mr. Briggs brought the bottle up with a speed that might have dug the mouth of it deep into Jerry’s throat, the youth raised his own arm to defend himself. The bottle struck him on the forearm. A jet of rum came streaming out. It fell on the open flame of the stove, and a sheet of blue flame leaped up into the air.
It came dangerously close to the reeling mate. Frightened, Mr. Briggs brought his right arm around as though to shield his face from the flames. But he had forgotten that he still held the bottle. His gesture emptied the remainder of the bottle onto the stove and another jet of flames leaped toward him. This time, the fire reached one of the roasts standing on the stove.