Among the revellers was the cook, Charlie, commonly called The Doctor. The rivermen early worked off the effects of their rather wild spree, and turned up at noon chipper as larks. Not so the cook. He moped about disconsolately all day; and in the evening, after his work had been finished, he looked so much like a chicken with the pip that Orde's attention was attracted.
“Got that dark-brown taste, Charlie?” he inquired with mock solicitude.
The cook mournfully shook his head.
“Large head? Let's feel your pulse. Stick out your tongue, sonny.”
“I ain't been drinking, I tell you!” growled Charlie.
“Drinking!” expostulated Orde, horrified. “Of course not! I hope none of MY boys ever take a drink! But that lemon-pop didn't agree with your stomach—now did it, Charlie?”
“I tell you I only had two glasses of beer!” cried Charlie, goaded, “and I can prove it by Johnny Challan.”
Orde turned to survey the pink-cheeked, embarrassed young boy thus designated.
“How many glasses did Johnny Challan have?” he inquired.
“He didn't drink none to speak of,” spoke up the boy.