"Then uncork the Saint Julien."
There was really no help for it. The smell of the mud was disgusting, and it turned one's stomach. So I pulled out the cork, and we performed our ablutions in the claret.
That done, we returned to our seats on the gunwale, one on each side, and looked sadly at one another. Six hours! That was an interminable time to spend on a mudflat in the Blackwater. Neither of us was much inclined to speak. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the major proposed refreshments. Accordingly we crept together into the bottom of the boat and there discussed the contents of the hamper, and we certainly did full justice to the whisky bottle. For we were wet to the skin, and beplastered from head to foot in the ill-savoured mud.
When we had done the chicken and ham, and drained the whisky jar, we returned to our several positions vis-à-vis. It was essential that the balance of the boat should be maintained.
Major Donelly was now in a communicative mood.
"I will say this," observed he; "that you are the best-informed and most agreeable man I have met with in Colchester and Chelmsford."
I would not record this remark but for what it led up to.
I replied—I dare say I blushed—but the claret in my face made it red, anyhow. I replied: "You flatter me."
"Not at all. I always say what I think. You have plenty of information, and you'll grow your wings, and put on rainbow colours."
"What on earth do you mean?" I inquired.