Jones sighed, and the coins were produced. The prize fell to Tim, and he leaned against the windlass and slowly poured the yellow liquid into his mug.
“There’s more than I thought there was,” remarked Mr. Jones, in surprise.
“Bottles is deceiving,” said the cook.
“It ain’t the fust toss as Tim ’as won,” said the third man, darkly.
The ordinary seaman made no reply, but, stepping over to the water-cask, added with great care a little water.
“Here’s your ’ealth, chaps,” he said, good-naturedly, as he drank, “and may you never want a drink.”
“You’ve never drunk all that, Tim?” said Mr. Jones, anxiously.
Tim shook his head. “There’s too much to drink all at once,” he said, gravely, and sat, with the mug on his knee, gazing ashore. “It’s warming me all over,” he mused. “I never tasted sich whisky afore. I’m in a gentle glow.”
So was the cook; a glow which increased to fever heat as the youth raised the mug to his lips again, and slowly drained it and handed it to him to wash up.
A little later the men went ashore, and strolling aimlessly up and down the road, passed the time in waiting for the ceremony and making sudden dashes after small boys who were throwing at their hats and hitting their heads.