“Very well—now we shall have something to eat and to drink, which is better, and drink that is worth the drinking, which is best of all. Here is some cognac, it was run goods that we captured and confiscated. Look at it. I wish there were artificial light and you would see, it is liquid amber—a liqueur. When you’ve tasted that, ah-ha! you will say, ‘Glad I lived to this moment.’ There is all the difference, my boy, between your best cognac and common brandy—the one, the condensed sunshine in the queen of fruit sublimed to an essence; the other, coarse, raw fire—all the difference that there is between a princess of blood royal and a gypsy wench. Drink and do not fear. This is not the stuff to smoke the head and clog the stomach.”
When Oliver Menaida finally started, he left the first officer of the coast-guard, in spite of his assurances, somewhat smoky in brain, and not in the condition to form the clearest estimate of what should be done in a contingency. The boat was laden with provisions for twenty-four hours, and placed under the command of Wyvill.
The crew had not rowed far before one of them sang out:
“Gearge!”
“Aye, aye, mate!” responded Wyvill.
“I say, Gearge. Be us a going round Pentyre?”
“I reckon we be.”
“And wet to the marrowbone we shall be.”
“I reckon we shall.”
Then a pause in the conversation. Presently from another, “Gearge!”