“If they was pudding-basins ’e wouldn’t mind,” said Nibletts, testily; “he’s that nervous ’e don’t know what ’e’s doing hardly. He was raving like a madman for five minutes cos ’e couldn’t fasten his collar, and then I found he’d forgot to put his shirt on. He don’t care.”
He hurried down to the cabin and then came bustling up again. His small face was strained with worry, and the crew eyed him respectfully as he came forward and dealt out white satin favours.
“Cap’in Barber’ll be all right with you looking arter ’im, sir,” said Jones, with strong conviction.
“That he will,” said the cook, nodding.
“There’s some whisky in a bottle in my locker, cook,” said Nibletts, dancing about nervously; “give the hands one drink each, cook. Only one, mind.”
The men thanked him, and with kindly eyes watched him go ashore. The cook went down for the whisky, and Tim, diving into the forecastle, brought up four mugs.
“He must ha’ meant another bottle,” said Jones, as the cook came slowly up again with a bottle containing one dose.
“There ain’t another,” said the cook; “he’s ’alf off ’is ’ed.”
There was a pained silence. “We must toss for it,” said Jones, at length; “that is, unless you chaps don’t want it.”
“Toss,” said three voices speaking as one.