“Seen too many of ’em,” said the mate bluntly. “The more I see of ’em, the less I like ’em. It makes me feel wicked to look at ’em.”
“Ah, that ain’t you speaking now, it’s the Evil One,” said Mr. Hutchins confidently.
“I s’pose you know ’im pretty well,” said the mate simply.
“I lived with him thirty years,” said Mr. Hutchins solemnly, “then I got tired of him.”
“I should think he got a bit sick too,” said the mate. “Thirty days ’ud ha’ been too long for me.”
He went to his berth to give Mr. Hutchins time to frame a suitable reply and returned with a full bottle of whisky and a tumbler, and having drawn the cork with a refreshing pop, mixed himself a stiff glass and lit his pipe. Mr. Hutchins with a deep groan gazed reproachfully at the skipper and shook his head at the bottle.
“You know I don’t like you to bring that filthy stuff in the cabin, George,” said the skipper.
“It’s not for me,” said the mate flippantly. “It’s for the Evil One. He ses the sight of his old pal ’Utchins ’as turned his stomach.”
He glanced at the stranger and saw to his astonishment that he appeared to be struggling with a strong desire to laugh. His lips tightened and his shifty little eyes watered, but he conquered himself in a moment, and rising to his feet delivered a striking address—in favor of teetotalism. He condemned whisky as not only wicked, but unnecessary, declaring with a side glance at the mate that two acidulated drops dissolved in water were an excellent substitute.
The sight of the whisky appeared to madden him, and the skipper sat spell-bound at his eloquence, until at length, after apostrophising the bottle in a sentence which left him breathless, he snatched it up and dashed it to pieces on the floor.