"The stone," cried Mr. Walters, in a strangulated voice; "it's stuck in my throat."
Bassett thumped him on the back like one possessed. "Cough it up!" he cried. "Put your finger down! Cough!"
The boatswain waved his arms and gurgled. "I'm choking!" he moaned, and dashed blindly into the inn, followed by the alarmed boy.
"Pot—six ale!" he gasped, banging on the little counter.
The landlord eyed him in speechless amazement.
"Six ale!" repeated the boatswain. "Pot! Quick! G-r-r."
"You be off," said the landlord, putting down a glass he was wiping, and eying him wrathfully. "How dare you come into my place like that? What do you mean by it?"
"He has swallowed a pebble!" said Bassett, hastily.
"If he'd swallowed a brick I shouldn't be surprised," said the landlord, "seeing the state he's in. I don't want drunken sailors in my place; and, what's more, I won't have 'em."