“Really, gentlemen, really—I—I must—”
“Come in, or you’ll catch cold in the draught,” sung out our reckless comrade, “your teeth chatter so now you can’t talk. Haul him in there, O’Shaughnessy.”
Quick as the word the unlucky interloper was dragged in, the door shut, and he stood turning from one to another of our group in speechless amazement. We were all ready for any mischief. The rattling of the cordage overhead, the thunder of the surge, and the deafening whistle of the hurricane we knew would drown all the uproar we might occasion, and afford us impunity for any offence. Besides it was no part of his duty to be intruding on our mess, and threatening us with punishment. We had a long account to settle with our extortioner.
“Hope you find yourself at home—take a sociable glass, that’s a good fellow—glad to see you amongst us,” sung out as many voices as biscuit after biscuit was sent at the purser’s head, while Westbrook mixing a stiff tumbler of salt and water proffered it to our victim to drink.
“Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you—the utmost penalty of—of the regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you shall, so help me God.”
“A penalty! a penalty! the worthy man is profane: how shall we punish such immorality?”
“Cob him,” said one.
“Keel-haul him,” said another.
“Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third.
“Give him the salt and water,” chimed in Westbrook, and the salt and water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers held the loathing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to administer the draught.