“Well, this here be a queer craft, and no mistake,” said our new friend, who told us his name was “Bristol Bob,” or “Bob” for short, when he had squatted down on the after-deck alongside of Tom, who was steering.
“Now, mates, fighting’s thirsty work; haven’t you ever a drop to drink,” asked Bristol Bob, “and a bit of bacca?”
I at once got him a drink of water, and said I’d hunt up some tobacco and a pipe for him.
“Water, lad? Well, I’ll have a drink; but haven’t you got anything better—no rum nor square gin?”
“There is a bottle of spirits, which we have kept; but it’s stowed away, and I can’t get it out unless we unstow the whole boat,” I answered.
“Never mind,” replied Bristol Bob, “I can do without it till we land. Fancy, lads, it’s three months since I’ve had a tot of grog, and till another trader comes round I shall have to go thirsty.”
All three of us—Tom, Bill, and myself—did not much care about this, for on board the Golden Fleece we had seen quite enough of the evils of drunkenness, and looked at each other rather gloomily. But all of a sudden I noticed that Bristol Bob’s shirt was stained with blood, and said to him,—
“Why, you’re wounded.”
“Why, yes, lad,” he said, “I believe I am; but you won’t think much of such a scratch as that when you’ve been knocking about as many years as I have.”
Tom and I, however, insisted on examining his wound while Bill steered, and pulling off his shirt we found under his left arm a small, punctured wound from which the blood was oozing slowly.