“Ah, yes, hot coffee’s good after a storm. Especially with a shot of rum in it.”
“Rum? Did you say rum?”
With a sly wink, Cookie reached behind him and under his apron. He brought out a bottle and brandished it happily.
“Aye, rum, mate.” He cast a dark look at Sandy. “It’s all that could be salvaged from the fire. I’d been saving it to make mince meat.” He unscrewed the cap and tilted it to pour it into the mate’s cup. “Here, a little of this’ll warm your belly.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” the mate chattered, holding up a hand to block Cookie. “I’d like to, Cookie—I swear I would! But I’d better not.”
“Why not?” Cookie asked innocently. “A man’s got a right to a proper drink after a storm.”
“Well, er,” the mate stammered, “as a matter of fact, the skipper, er, suggested to me that I’d better not.”
“Of course,” Cookie agreed, raising the bottle again. “But that was before the storm. Now, you know Captain West would never begrudge a man a snort after coming through what we’ve been through.”
Cookie’s voice was so easy and coaxing that Sandy marveled to hear it. And the mate could not resist it.
“Well, Cookie, since you put it that way, I suppose you’re right. But, just a little, now. Whoa, whoa! That’s plenty!”