He produced a small flat bottle from his pocket, and, kneeling down beside me, tilted some of its contents into my mouth. The stuff was raw spirit of the fiercest kind, and as a prescription it certainly carried out his prophecy. With a spluttering gasp I struggled up into a sitting position, while, replacing the cork, the owner of the bottle contemplated his handiwork with an approving smile.
"Nothin' like a drop o' rum," he observed. "There's many a bloke walkin' round now who'd be dead and buried if them blarsted teetotallers 'ad their way."
In a dazed fashion I began to try and express my gratitude, but he cut me short by clapping me on the shoulder.
"That's orl right, mate! You ain't the fust I've pulled out o' this 'ere dock—not by a long way."
He thrust the bottle back into his pocket, and, slipping an arm under my shoulder, hoisted me up on to one of the seats.
"Reg'lar death trap in a fog," he went on, "an' I've told 'em so a score o' times. They ought to 'ave a chain along the edge be rights, but Lor' love yer, they don't care 'ow many's drownded—not they!"
He picked up the lantern and replaced it in the bows.
"Were was you tryin' to get to, mate?" he enquired.
Once more I fought back the stupor which was stealing over my brain.
"Do you know the Neptune?" I asked. "She came in early this morning."