Bassett, explained, and a troubled expression appeared on the seaman's face as he listened. He was thinking of the last conversation he had had with the youth, and the hearty way in which he had agreed with him as to the pernicious action of malt and other agreeable liquors on the human frame. He remembered that he had committed himself to the statement that wild horses could not make him drink before six in the evening, and then not more than one half-pint.
"It's a long walk for a 'ot day," he said, slowly. "It might be too much for you."
"Oh, no; I'm a good walker," said Bassett.
"Might be too much for that head of yours," said Mr. Walters, considerately.
"I often walk farther than that," was the reply.
Mr. Walters drew the back of his hand across a mouth which was already dry, and resigned himself to his fate. He had lied quite voluntarily, and pride told him that he must abide by the consequences. And eight miles of dusty road lay between him and relief. He strode along stoutly, and tried to turn an attentive ear to a dissertation on field-mice. At the end of the first mile he saw the sign of the Fox and Hounds peeping through the trees, and almost unconsciously slackened his pace as he remembered that it was the last inn on the road to Seven Trees.
"It's very 'ot," he murmured, mopping his brow with his sleeve, "and I'm as dry as a bone."
"I'm thirsty, too," said Bassett; "but you know the cure for it, don't you?"
"O' course I do," said the boatswain, and nearly smacked his lips.
"Soldiers do it on the march," said Bassett.