“What’s he done? What’s the row?” demanded the mate.
“Done?” said the waterman, in disgust. “Done? He’s ’ad a small lemon, an’ it’s got into his silly old head. He’s making all this fuss ’cos he wanted to set the pub on fire, an’ they wouldn’t let him. Man ashore told us they belonged to the Good Intent, but I know they’re your men.”
“Sam!” roared the skipper, with a sinking heart, as his glance fell on the recumbent figures in the boat; “come aboard at once, you drunken disgrace! D’ye hear?”
“I can’t leave him,” said Sam, whimpering.
“Leave who?” growled the skipper.
“Him,” said Sam, placing his arms round the waterman’s neck. “Him an’ me’s like brothers.”
“Get up, you old loonatic!” snarled the waterman, extricating himself with difficulty, and forcing the other towards the side. “Now, up you go!”
Aided by the shoulders of the waterman and the hands of his superior officers, Sam went up, and then the waterman turned his attention to the remainder of his fares, who were snoring contentedly in the bottom of the boat.
“Now, then!” he cried; “look alive with you! D’ye hear? Wake up! Wake up! Kick ’em, Bill!”
“I can’t kick no ’arder,” grumbled the other waterman.