Trunnell scratched his big bushy head a moment, and then suggested that a bottle of the ginger pop which the steward had in the pantry would do for him.
"Hell'n blazes, man, take a drink o' something," cried Thompson, turning upon him with his fierce eyes. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothin', only I drinks what I drinks or else I don't drink at all," said
Trunnell. "Ye asked me what I'd have, an' I says it."
"All right, Shorty," said Thompson, in mock gravity. "You drinks what you drinks. What's yours, Rolling?"
"As I've just turned to, a little soda will do for me," I answered. "I'd rather take my grog in the morning at regular hours."
Thompson let his hand fall upon the table with a crash, and then sat motionless, looking from one to the other, his long, beak-like nose twitching convulsively.
"Steward," said he, with a nasal drawl which made his hooked nose wrinkle, "get Mr. Trunnell a drink o' ginger pop, or milk, if he prefers it, and then, steward, you may get Mr. Rolling a drink o' sody water. It's hot, but I reckon it'll fizz."
"Yessah. What's yourn, cap'n?"
"You don't think there's a priest aboard here, do you, steward, hey?"
"No, sah, 'tain't likely, but I ken find out, sah. Shall I get yo' drink fust, sah?"