“And what do you drink, Mr. Pyecroft?” I said.
“Only water. Warm water, with a little whisky an’ sugar an’ per’aps a lemon.”
“Mine’s beer,” said the Marine. “It always was.”
“Look ’ere, Glass. You take an’ go to sleep. The picket’ll be comin’ for you in a little time, an’ per’aps you’ll ’ave slep’ it off by then. What’s your ship, now?” said Mr. Wessels.
“The Ship o’ State—most important?” said the Red Marine magnificently, and shut his eyes.
“That’s right,” said Mr. Pyecroft. “He’s safest where he is. An’ now—here’s santy to us all!—what d’you want o’ me?”
“I want to read you something.”
“Tracts, again!” said the Marine, never opening his eyes. “Well. I’m game…. A little more ’ead to it, miss, please.”
“He thinks ’e’s drinkin’—lucky beggar!” said Mr. Pyecroft. “I’m agreeable to be read to. ’Twon’t alter my convictions. I may as well tell you beforehand I’m a Plymouth Brother.”
He composed his face with the air of one in the dentist’s chair, and I began at the third page of “M. de C.”