"Drunk?" said the unfortunate boatswain, raising his voice. "Me? Why, I ain't—"
"Out you go!" said the landlord, in a peremptory voice, "and be quick about it; I don't want people to say you got it here."
"Got it?" wailed Mr. Walters. "Got it? I tell you I ain't had it. I swallowed a stone."
"If you don't go out," said the landlord, as Mr. Walters, in token of good faith, stood making weird noises in his throat and rolling his eyes, "I'll have you put out. How dare you make them noises in my bar! Will—you—go?"
Mr. Walters looked at him, looked at the polished nickel taps, and the neat row of mugs on the shelves. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out.
"Has it gone down?" inquired Bassett presently, as they walked along.
"Wot?" said the boatswain, thoughtlessly.
"The pebble."
"I s'pose so," said the other, sourly.
"I should think it would be all right, then," said the boy; "foreign bodies, even of considerable size, are often swallowed with impunity. How is your thirst now?"