“Not in such a place. I but came to plead with you not to fill yourself with that liquid. It is ruinous.” Here he looked across the room where the proprietor was attending to a group of sailors who were about a table. “It is ruinous, I say, and here I implore you not to drink too much. As a man of God, I ask you, and the chaplain of the Guerrière,” and he raised his eyes aloft and clasped his hands as if in prayer. I now noticed his clothes were somewhat clerical in cut, though shabby. At this moment, a buxom maid brought some fresh mugs, foaming full, and I tossed her a piece of money. She looked at me and smiled, saying something I failed to understand. Then casting a look at the tall man in the door, she laughed and went her way.
“And why not on the frigate now?” I asked Mr. Raymond, who still seemed to be absorbed in prayer.
“Lost, man, lost!” said my little companion, taking a fresh mug. “Don’t you know she was lost?”
“Well,” I cried, “what difference? Should a holy man desert his ship any the sooner for being holy, hey? Answer me that. Why didn’t you get lost in her? Sink me, but I like a man who will do something more than talk for the good of a soul. I like a bit o’ sacrifice now and again to show the meaning true. I’d like to see our friend drink this mug of ale to save me from the devil, for, if he’ll drink it, I vow I’ll not buy another for myself.”
“Deliver us from evil,” moaned Raymond. “Oh, Henry, I couldn’t do it,” and his eyes rolled up.
“So your name is Henry, is it?” I asked my little companion.
He looked queerly at me.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” I asked, roughly.
“You never asked me,” said he. “The chaplain has known me many years.”
“Well,” I cried, rising and advancing upon Mr. Raymond, “you’ll either drink this ale or get it in the face, for I’ll not be badgered by every hairy heaven-yelper I run against. Drink!” and I held the mug toward him.