“Gentlemen—I—I—protest—a—gainst—you shall suffer for this—you shall—”
“Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy,” said O’Shaughnessy, giving the purser a shake.
“Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—I warn you,” said the purser raising his voice.
But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in one hand, he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the struggling man, and gravely commenced haranguing him on the enormity of his offence.
“It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sower,” and here Westbrook laid his hand upon his heart, “to hear a man of your character use such language as you have been convicted of, especially in the presence of these misguided young reprobates,” here there was a general laugh, “example, example, my dear sir, is every thing. But the deed is done: the penalty alone remains to be paid. With a heart torn with the most poignant anguish I proceed to execute your sentence.”
“Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e—u—uh.”
But in vain the purser kicked, and struggled, and spluttered. The mess was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second forced open his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity, apologising for, and bemoaning his melancholy duty,—as he called it—in the same breath, poured the nauseating draught down the victim’s throat, amid roars of laughter.
“D——n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the purser, almost choked with rage.
“Open the door and let him run,” laughed Westbrook.
The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang out of the mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their sides, laughed until the tears ran out of their eyes.