“I mean,” said Harry hastily, “that you’ve got sich a generous nature that when you’ve ’ad a glass or two you’re just as likely as not to give it away to somebody.”
“I know what I’m about,” said Mr. Dodds with conviction. “I’m not goin’ to get on while I’ve got this about me. I’m just goin’ round to the ‘Bull’s Head,’ but I sha’n’t drink anything to speak of myself. Anybody that likes to come t’ave anything at my expense is welcome.”
A flattering murmur, which was music to Mr. Dodds’ ear, arose from his shipmates as they went on deck and hauled the boat alongside. The boy was first in her, and pulling out his pockethandkerchief ostentatiously wiped a seat for Mr. Dodds.
“Understand,” said that gentleman, with whom the affair of the half-sovereign still rankled, “your drink is shandygaff.”
They returned to the brig at eleven o’clock, Mr. Dodds slumbering peacefully in the stern of the boat, propped up on either side by Steve and the boy.
His sleep was so profound that he declined to be aroused, and was hoisted over the side with infinite difficulty and no little risk by his shipmates.
“Look at ’im,” said Harry, as they lowered him down the forecastle. “What ’ud ha’ become of ’im if we hadn’t been with ’im? Where would ’is money ha’ been?”
“He’ll lose it as sure as eggs is heggs,” said Steve, regarding him intently, “Bear a hand to lift ’im in his bunk, Harry.”
Harry complied, their task being rendered somewhat difficult by a slight return of consciousness in Mr. Dodds’ lower limbs, which, spreading themselves out fanwise, defied all attempts to pack them in the bunk.